Scar
by Maegmel
Summary: What if Mr. Churchill actually proposed to Emma when he was still engaged to Jane? How would the story have ended differently?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I own nothing. Any mistakes are my own. This was an inspiration I had, and I only ask that you stick it out to the end to see how it finishes

**Dedication: **To my wonderful sisters, may you both find your Mr. Knightley and avoid any more Frank Churchills…..

**Scar**

**Chapter 1**

"For your offenses Sir, as previously listed, I demand satisfaction in defense of Miss Woodhouse's honor." I stately firmly, my gloved hand strayed to my father's sheathed rapier, awkwardly strapped to my side. _Nervous though I might be, he should not know it._

Although I had had, like every other gentleman's son fencing and shooting lessons, they were almost thirty years ago, a longer span of time I feared than the man whom I had just challenged. I never wore this weapon, it was mostly for ceremony, though as John and I had discovered as young men, it was nonetheless quite sharp. I wore it now to remind him, though I was a gentleman, I was still prepared to defend the innocent.

My future opponent stammered. "H-How did you discover my understanding with Miss Fairfax? She and I were the only ones who had knowledge of it." I had the satisfaction of seeing Frank Churchill's smug face completely drained of color for once.

I produced a folded parchment from my coat pocket with not a bit of self-satisfaction, "A letter from your dearest Aunt, who discovered some rather incriminating letters amongst your things at her house. She, being the respectable woman she is, and having heard about you dalliance with Miss Woodhouse, took it upon herself in her failing health to bring your secret to light before you wounded not one, but two women, and wrote to Mr. Woodhouse." I turned the blotted paper over in my hands, as if debating what to do.

My insides roiled. _How COULD he do this? To Miss Fairfax? To Emma? It went against all notions of legality, not to mention morality._ I felt a firm hand on my shoulder, and heard my younger brother's voice.

_Thank God for John and his cool head, else I might have started this duel prematurely._

"Mr. Churchill, do you accept my brother's challenge and his defense of Miss Woodhouse's honor?" his tone was rigid, but I who knew him so well, knew he was just as unsettled as I was, though for another reason as well.

"_George, what he did to Emma was unthinkable! Without honor to be sure, but does an unanswered proposal to Emma while engaged to another require you challenging him for her honor? Why can this not be decided in court?" I remembered distinctly John's pleading last night as I sat by the fire with him in Donwell debating what to do._

My mind is set though, he had maligned Emma's honor, and as her friend I could do no less than defend her, even more so since I discovered I was hopelessly in love with her.

The blessing in all of this, was that Mr. Woodhouse was so concerned about this letter, he called on me at once for advice, and I told him I would handle it, and Emma need not know that her would-be-fiancé had deceived both her and another woman. _At least not yet anyway._

The small bubble of hope for me in this whole situation, was that Emma had not yet responded to Frank's proposal, she had merely said she would 'think upon it.' _Perhaps her feelings are not so set on him as we have all thought._ The little voice in my head was irritating.

"Well, Mr. Churchill, what say you?" I demanded, staring him down.

He swallowed, "What shall be the weapon?" he asked with a dry mouth, and my dark side got the better of me. Even though he was easily ten years my junior, he was still afraid of me.

John interrupted before I could speak again, "As the challenged, it is your choice, in concert with the Rules of Dueling, my brother is adept at either the pistol or the rapier." His hand clamped even harder into my shoulder, reminding me to keep my uncharacteristically fragile temper in check.

Churchill replied steadily finally looking me in the eye, "The pistol, to first blood."

"Tomorrow at dawn, by the bridge at the ford." I rejoined, " My brother, John shall be my second. Mr. Larkins shall officiate, and Dr. Perry shall be on hand as well if we should need his services."

"My servant, Tom Riley, shall be my second, and Mr. Elton shall bear witness."

I extended my hand, "Are we agreed?"

"Agreed." He shook my hand, and I resisted the urge to wipe off the glove as I turned to walk away from the blackguard.

I sighed. "_George Elliot Knightley what HAVE you gotten yourself into now?"_ Even now I could hear my father's voice chiding me, the memory of my ten year old self covered in mud in what had been my Sunday best clothes made me smirk. My father always taught us that violence was always the last resort. ".._A gentleman should use every last resort before he turns to violence, and if that time does come, it is only to be used against your equal in strength. Never a woman or child..."_

_Well father, it's in defense of a friend._ John still shook his head at me, as if he could read my thoughts.

He and I walked in silence for a time, and as we crested the hill leading out of the village I turned to him.

"Thank you for supporting me even if you do not agree with my reasons." I laid my arm on his shoulder, looking into his eyes, mutely asking for his forgiveness in risking his life as well as mine.

John, looked first to the ground, and then to my face, blinking rapidly as he had done since a boy when his emotions overwhelmed him. "The lawyer is me does not agree with your reasons George." He paused and sighed, looking down again as he shifted his feet only to meet my eyes again.

"The man in me keeps asking myself how would I have reacted in any other fashion if this had been Isabella." He laid his arm on my shoulder, in our decade-old pact of brothers from the mud fights to Oxford and beyond, we had done nearly everything together.

"George," he choked and then laughed, "you've loved her since my wedding haven't you?" his feeble attempt at humor broke the severity of the situation in which we found ourselves.

"Quite possibly," I replied sheepishly not quite meeting his eyes, "though I did not discover it till much later."

"George," his serious tone returned, demanding I look at him, "if you love her half so much as I love Isabella, and sometimes I think you might even love her more, then you must tell her before the morrow. Emma must know why you are doing this for her" His brown eyes pleaded with me to do what I knew I should, but did not wish to do.

"Must is a strong word, John," I sighed, "Perhaps you are correct, I shall think upon it." _If perhaps I do survive tomorrow, and I tell it, it will alter our friendship in irrevocable ways. What if she no longer wants to be my friend anymore? _

Turning away I began to walk forward again black boots plodding across the partially slick grass from a recent rain, before stopping a final time. "John, you must promise to tell no one what we have spoken of, this is my decision and you cannot even tell Isabella."

My brother's face lit up with fury, "My wife has a right to know if I'm going to end up possibly being killed tomorrow!"

_She will tell Emma and Mr. Woodhouse though, and they will try to stop this._

_Isabella has a right to know._

"You may tell her right before we leave." I compromised.

He considered for a moment, knowing in the end there was no other option anyway.

"George I think you are to secretive for your own good sometimes," was his resigned answer.

We walked off towards the setting sun and Donwell like we had for so many years past, but this time talking of anything but what tomorrow held.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I probably should have put this note up on the first chapter, but I was lazy. In case you have not noticed, I dislike Frank Churchill, always have, always will. Even if he was played by Ewan McGregor. Sorry Frank fans. I also, while attempting to stay true to Austen, am not her, and cannot write in her style without making it sound contrived. Therefore, I write as best I can. Please review!

**Chapter 2**

There was a soft, insistent knocking at my door that woke me from my slumber.

"Who is there?" I whispered, pushing back my tangled soft sheets with a yawn. The light was just rising over the hills in the distance, my messy hair tumbled unbound down past my shoulders as I tip-toed across the cool wooden planks to the door.

I opened the door a crack to peer out, and was surprised to see my old friend standing there, his face like the grave.

"Mr. Knightley!" I cried with concern throwing open the door disregarding propriety that I was not properly dressed to see him in my night gown and with my hair down. It was his disturbed face that concerned me, not the gossip.

"Whatever is the matter?" I asked concerned, and resisted the strong urge to embrace him. I had never seen my friend so clearly upset, he usually hid his emotions well. _It is one thing to show him this, it is entirely another to embrace him._ My heart went out to him though, he looked positively miserable.

He paused for a few moments before putting his hand in his pocket an uncharacteristic gesture on his part. With a small smile he replied, "Nothing is the matter Emma, I have business matters to attend to and will be unable to make breakfast with you and your family this morning I fear." He pulled out a sealed envelope and offered it to me.

"I had hoped you would read this though, after you eat." He said solemnly, and his eyes were missing their usual gaiety and chased by dark circles indicating a sleepless night.

"I do not believe you! Something is wrong!" I returned upset he would not tell me the truth.

A ghost of his smile returned, though I suspected it was only for my benefit, "Trust me Emma, there is nothing you can do about it." He continued to look down though.

_Why not now? Why can't you just tell me?_

As if he'd read my mind, he smiled, his brilliant smile, that showed only when he was about to tease me, "Patience is a virtue Emma, you should work on that." He grasped my hand and brought it to his lips to kiss me, something he'd only done once before at my social ball years before.

_He is acting so strange._

The shadow fell over his face again as he paused to look at me, "Do take care of yourself my dear." His voice cracked, and before I could stop him, his thick autumn cape snapped around and he was down the corridor with the door closing behind him.

_Whatever is the matter with Mr. Knightley? He never writes me letters to hand deliver them…_

I turned the thick creamy parchment over in my hand, it smelled of anise, smoke and oak wood and brought to mind Donwell where he had no doubt written it. I was sorely tempted to open it, but Mr. Knightley always had good reasons for his requests, and so I laid down the missive with its strong yet elegant "Emma" scrawled across the front in thick black letters.

Not feeling sleepy I began my usual morning ablutions, but not without looking at his letter ever few minutes. I wanted so badly to open it, I almost felt like I needed to.

"_Patience is a virtue Emma, you should work on that."_ His voice came into my mind as I picked up the letter to turn it over again, the thick brown sealing wax embossed with "G.E.K." and three acorns adorned it.

_Simple and powerful. Just like Mr. Knightley._

I put the letter down. I would obey his wishes. I called for Bessie, and she helped me with the last of my stays and boots. Her mindless chatter was calming.

"…You know I swear something has gotten into the water at Donwell, old Harry was dancing a jig last Saturday during the harvest party-and he is nearly seventy and six years of age!" she brushed my hair skillfully, and then moved on to the curling iron. "..and just this morning both Mr. Knightleys came by ever so briefly to say they would miss breakfast and likely lunch as well today. I daresay Mr. Woodhouse should be upset even with his cold he wished to have a family lunch today with everyone-"

For yes, things were a bit topsy-turvy during this visit from Isabella and John, they came virtually unannounced late yesterday evening, but because father was ill they decided to stay at Donwell so he could rest this morning.

My mind registered what Bessie had just said "Wait did you just say both Mr. Knightleys were to be gone?"

"Why yes I did Miss Emma, rather unusual don't you think? Your father was so looking forward to the luncheon too. He was even going to allow-"

Bessie did not finish her sentence though, because there was a loud commotion below stairs, and shouting.

"EMMA!" Isabella screamed at the top of her lungs. Thankfully with the exception of my hair, I was fully dressed, I grabbed the iron from Bessie and tossed it aside, flung open the door and dashed downstairs as fast my feet would carry me.

_Isabella was in trouble, it must be one of the children, that would explain why the gentlemen had gone out._

"EMMA!" she cried again. I nearly fell on the last step as I rushed to my distraught sister. Her face was red and puffy from crying, streaked with tears. She clasped a small wrinkled parchment, "Emma you must stop him!" she cried and began sobbing into my shoulder.

"Shhhh.." I rubbed her back, "Whatever is the matter Isabella?" I whispered softly trying to soothe her, her petite body was wracked with violent sobs and I realized only that most dire of circumstances could be the cause of her panic.

My father came into the room in his dressing robe and night cap, "Whatever is going on?" he asked gruffly.

"George and John!" Isabella hiccupped through her tears, "they'll be killed!" her hysteria overwhelmed her, and I pried the note from her fist.

"_My Dearest Isabella-_

_I regret that I must write this by note and not in person, but secrecy bound me. My brother and I upon learning of a certain gentleman's immoral designs on your sister have felt it necessary to demand satisfaction from him for his duplicity. _

_For Mr. Frank Churchill was already engaged when he asked Emma to marry him, and George would not stand for this ruination of Emma, so he has challenged him to a duel this very morning. I am to be his second. I am not worried for myself truly, but for George, while he is a good shot, and I do not expect to be needed, I do not know Frank Churchill's skill. It is very likely George might die, the Churchill family are known for their martial skills, you will remember the Duke of Marlborough…_

_I have attempted to dissuade George, but he will not be moved. He will defend Emma even if he dies for it, and as his brother I am bound to his side. I love you dearest, and the children so very much. _

_Pray that justice shall prevail at the ford this morning._

_Your Truest Loving Husband-_

_John Knightley_

I dropped the note in shock. _Now it all makes sense, why he would not let you read his letter until you could not stop him._

_I must read it now._ My feet flew up the stairs.

Grasping the offending letter I ripped open the seal and feverishly read the lines which he had so carefully written.

"_My Darling Emma Dear,_

_In the twenty-one years that I have watched you grow from a precocious child who knew more than her elders at times, to a stunningly accomplished young lady with a brilliant mind (hindered only by your self-opinion) I could not have asked for a better, truer friend._

_These years have been the happiest of my life, and I thought as did many that things would continue on as they were for ever. You would stay at Hartfield, Mistress of it and your father's heart. I should be your confirmed bachelor friend, and like everything in Highbury nothing should touch this._

_How very wrong I was._

_Mr. Frank Churchill came in to tread all over Highbury and our wonderful patterns. I know that you love him my dear, and this is why I feel honor-bound to tell you this story in full, nomatter how much it may hurt you. You need and deserve the truth, and as you old friend I can give you nothing less._

_A letter was received by your father not three nights past from one Mrs. Churchill, she was deeply concerned about a series of explicit letters she found among her nephews things at her house. Letters to a one Jane Fairfax spelling out their secret and long-standing engagement. Having heard from her brother Mr. Weston about his certain impending nuptials to yourself she was in horror, and wrote to remedy the situation immediately hoping to save you from any further heartbreak and Miss Fairfax from a dallier. _

_Your father in his deep concern sent for me, and showed me the letter, and I in turn decided it was necessary in these circumstances to do something I naturally abhor, I must challenge Mr. Churchill for your honor since it had been besmirched by his underhanded black dealings. Your honor is of greatest import to me Emma._

_So I sent in urgency to my brother John for his counsel, and support, he responded in kind and arrived late the other evening. I was to tell you nothing of this initially and rather let it play out as God will have it, but my brother has played my conscience again._

_For I have not been entirely honest with you my dear._

_There is another reason I wish to challenge Frank Churchill._

_I love you Emma._

_You must be thinking me Bedlam-material, as of course, you love me too, as a friend loves another._

_I don't love you as just as friend Emma, and I cannot tell you when my regard for our friendship somehow slipped into something more, and much much deeper._

_I love you as a man loves a woman Emma, and if I loved you less perhaps I could explain it more, but I am not the romantic you wish, and actually a rather indifferent lover, having criticized more than praised you._

_My only regret is that I wish I had not belatedly realized just how much you mean to me. While I doubt you would even consider a man such as I for you suitor, you must realize that I love you more than life itself and nothing you say today or tomorrow shall change that. Even if you wished never to speak with me again, my regard will not change. _

_So let me be plain with you, I do not want you pity, nor do I expect your love, what I do, I do as a gentleman should for a friend. All I ask is that if I should not live to see tomorrow, please remember me as your dearest companion and truest friend._

_With all my love, your most steadfast friend-_

_George Elliot Knightley_

"NO!" The scream of terror and agony that escaped from my mouth must have rent the gates of hell itself open, and I collapsed weeping as our friendship flashed before my eyes.

_Him holding me when I stared at my mother's coffin at the young age of four._

_George rescuing me from the lake, a dripping wet mischievous seven year old, even though I had pulled him in as well._

_My childish attempts at comforting him after his father's untimely death when I was only eight and barely understood what death meant. The only time I had ever seen him shed a tear._

_Teaching me how to play chess, even though he always beat me._

_Him dancing with me when nobody else would at Isabella's wedding._

_Planting the line of trees together behind Hartfield, as he painstakingly explained each one and what it's characteristics._

_His utter refusal to attend my social coming-out ball, only to show up at my door with his carriage to escort me. Then, him asking me to dance despite protesting he did not like dancing._

_Our fight over Harriet during archery practice._

My head spun.

_The handshakes, the smiles, the witty retorts, the rescues, my tears, the rebukes, that funny feeling I got in my stomach these last few months when he looked at me._

I stood when I heard footsteps pounding up the stairs.

_Good Lord._

_I Emma Jane Woodhouse was in love with my best friend._ The realization hit me like a wagon full of bricks, and I collapsed on the floor.

I closed my eyes and tried to breathe, when I heard his voice reading me his words, _"I must challenge Mr. Churchill for your honor…"_

_He might die for me. _The thought cut into me like a searing blade, and I doubled over as my stomach emptied itself all over the carpet.

The door opened. I didn't even note who it was as I pushed past, grabbing my brilliant red cape as I tore out of the house like the hounds of hell were after me. One thought drove me.

_I must stop this duel._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Ever since I left Hartfield, my mind had become unusually calm, and I got a sort of tunnel vision, focusing only on the preparations for what might very well be my last acts on earth.

The pistol I had left with my brother, while I went into the house, I retrieved to place in my old leather holster with a soft click. I mounted my faithful horse, and glanced back through the howling wind at my brother.

He initially hid his face from my view, "John are you ready?" I asked in a detached voice. Then he looked up at me, and I could see the silent tears on his face.

He stared at me for a time before responding, "If you mean am I ready to see my brother die, then no I am not. I shall never be ready for that." He choked, "Are you so very set George that you must do this?"

"Yes." While I was not insensitive to his pain, I saw no other recourse. "We must ride."

He nodded, and we tore off, the thunder of our horses hooves beating a path down to the ford.

The cool autumn air whipped against my face, making me feel unusually alive, remembering to doge the errant tree branch in our path we galloped forward. As the scenery blurred around me into a childish painting of brown, orange, red and yellow my memories called me.

_A little golden-haired girl of six came running and laughing towards my open arms. "I did it! Mr. Knightley! I finished the pianoforte sonnet finally and Miss Taylor has let me out for the afternoon!" Her laughter like some angelic bells in heaven was contagious._

_I caught her mid-stride and lifted her up in the air to whirl her around, her laughter increased in her joy, making me smile as well._

_Then I set her down again, "Very well, what would you like to play today?" I said kneeling next to her level and a pile of leaves._

_She reached down to grab two large handfuls of the wet slippery tree detris, "I shall be the fairy princess come to marry her prince!" she exclaimed. Then frowned, "First I need a proper fairy dress though!"_

_I chuckled at her, "And just how to intend get a proper fairy dress?" I asked her gravely._

_She tapped my nose with her tiny finger, "Why of course you make one silly!" she giggled, and gave me her devilish grin she always gave me right before she did something she knew she wasn't supposed to._

_Then suddenly, she jumped into the large leaf pile and rolled around, over and over until her hair was mussed and covered in twigs and leaves, and her dress was as well. Then she jumped up, and grasped my hand._

"_Mr. Knightley, what are you doing sitting there?" she asked with that silly grin on her face._

"_Trying to figure out how to explain this to your father." I retorted with a laugh._

_She pouted, crossing her arms, "My fairy prince is NOT supposed to tell on me!" she exclaimed unhappily._

"_Oh I'm your fairy prince now am I?" I smiled at her _

"_YES!" she shrieked with delight, as only young children do, and before I could stop her, she tossed a large bunch of leaves on top of me, veritably covering me from head to toe._

_I laughed at my situation and her, the Oxford Scholar brought low by a six year old girl. "Very well, Miss Emma, I think the fairy princess needs a crown." I replied as I reached for some late-blooming yellow flowers nearby and twisted them into some semblance of a crown for her._

_She came forward most solemnly and knelt before me, then I placed the crown on her head. "With this crown I make you Fairy Princess of the Autumn." I said in a serious tone, trying so very hard not to laugh._

_She stood up positively beaming, then beckoned me to lean over with an enchanting smile._

_She whispered in my ear, "Mr. Knightley I'm afraid you've forgotten something."_

"_What have I forgotten Emma?" I asked with a smile_

"_You forgot to kiss me, I'm your Fairy Princess Bride remember? The groom is supposed to kiss the bride at weddings silly!" she laughed again, twirling around, sending leaves flying this way and that from her dress._

"_Very well." I said, kneeling again to her level, I took her hand and kissed it. She giggled again, "You're too tall Mr. Knightley! I need to kiss you!" she exclaimed happily._

_I shook my head with a laugh. This child had the ability to make my heart melt and forget all my cares like no one else ever did. For the life of me I could not understand why. I knelt completely on the ground and she walked up to kiss my forehead…_

A voice startled me out of my reverie, it would appear that I had arrived full circle to this same field, where I was once again Emma's Prince, but this time to defend her honor.

"I say Mr. Knightley," a stern voice cut in, "Are you quite alright?" my family servant, Mr. Larkins asked in concern.

"Just fine, only reminiscing." I replied the weight of the hour finally had arrived. I quickly checked my pistol again, to be sure it was in working order.

I looked around, just in time to see that Mr. Elton was already here with the good doctor. Mr. Elton was pacing back and forth nervously, which I thought odd considering he was not in the line of fire this morning, but then again he always was a strange man.

Dr. Pell came forward to me as John tied our horses, "I should check you briefly, just for honor's sake to see that you have a clean bill of health." His voice seemed to be talking to me from far away, but I nodded my consent.

Frank Churchill arrived with his servant just then. He nodded in my direction, I responded in kind. John removed my cape and jacket, then my vest. He and I agreed in the likelihood I was shot, it would be best not to complicate the doctor's troubles by the removal of excessive cloth from the wound.

It was also according to custom, to show I wore no thick padding or armor. I rubbed my arms at the sudden chill of being exposed to the fierce wind in nothing but linen shirt.

Once the doctor had finished checking me, he moved on to Churchill who was similarly stripped and examined.

I closed my eyes for a minute, willing calm into my frayed nerves. _I must shoot straight._

There was a loud thundering noise in the distance, or was it in my head? I opened my eyes again, intent on nothing but Churchill.

Mr. Larkins drew a line in the cold earth with his blade. We walked forward, standing toe to toe. His eyes were grey; I realized that for the very first time. Grey and hard. Nomatter, I was just as determined as he.

"It shall be ten paces, as agreed upon for the gravest of insults." Larkins' voice droned out. "On my mark you shall turn about and count out ten paces from where you stand now. Then again on my mark, you shall turn about a second time to face one another."

He paused to swallow, and blink a rather long time, even for Larkins.

"Then , on my mark, and only on my mark, shall you draw and fire one round each from your pistols at none save your opponent, until one of you is wounded." His voice cracked.

"Are you gentlemen agreed to the terms?"

"I am." My voice was firm, and confident, my mind was clear, except for the pounding that would not cease, I was not worried. I would accomplish my duty, and I would regain Emma's honor.

" ." Churchill replied.

"Turn about!" Larkins commanded.

John came forward, "Are you to be reconciled against your opponent by any means?" his voice wavered a little, but John kept a steady gaze on me.

"None save my pistol" was my cold reply.

Churchill mumbled something similar.

"Mark your paces!" Larkins shouted.

I placed one foot in front of the other, ten times. Then I stopped. I thought I heard Emma's voice in my head. I blinked. The wind howled in my ears.

"Turn about!"

I did so, my gaze fell only upon Frank, heedless of anything else around me.

There was a split second pause when the world seemed to pause between us, and I realized that Emma was talking to me in my head again.

"FIRE!" Larkins roared. I drew my weapon and aimed, just as my finger pulled the trigger my vision was splashed with red. A woman's voice cried out.

My gun went off, and I fell with under an unexpected force to the frosty ground just as another crack rang out.

Then with a sinking feeling I realized what had occurred.

_I hadn't been hit at all._

That red color was from a familiar cape, Emma's to be exact.

I opened my eyes, to see her body collapsed on mine, and I felt like my heart would beat out of my chest.

"No!" I cried out.

I rolled her gingerly off of me, my hands were shaking uncontrollably, her eyes were closed, and I saw only too clearly what had happened.

She looked like a brilliant angel from heaven lying there on the crispy soil, her red cape splayed about her, in her white cotton frock heavy with painstaking little white flower embroidery from Isabella. Her single diamond pendant out of place near her chin, leading to her flaming golden hair, half bound framing her pale face. Her life force pumping out of her right shoulder in brilliant red staining the snowy cotton, and the frosty ground alike.

_A wounded angel._

I felt paralyzed, like I couldn't even breathe, and tried to inhale, to cry out, "NO, NO, NO!" I wailed, and a blackness I had never known consumed me.

"She was not supposed to be here!" I cried out.

Suddenly, my rage was overwhelming, and I stood up.

Frank Churchill was holding his right arm, which was gushing blood, he was pale but clearly horrified at the scene which met his eyes.

"If she dies, there is not a single hole, any ocean, government or army that will protect you Frank. I shall find you and I will murder you in cold blood!" I swore, and tossing my rapier at him, it hissed through the air before landing with a thud, I cared not if actually struck him.

Dr. Pell was already at her side ripping away at the shoulder of her dress to reach the wound, and I knelt down again, grasping her hand to my chest in despair. "Emma," I whispered tears streaming down my face, "why, oh why did you do this?"

Her eyes fluttered open for a second, "I. saved. you." was her soft reply, then she closed her eyes and her head lolled to one side.

**A/N**: Surprised?

So, I have never dueled, attended one, been shot or seen someone shot, let alone someone I care about this much. I tried very hard to channel how Mr. Knightley would have felt here, and I hope I have done a decent job. I do know that in some cases like this one here, people are so stressed they get tunnel-vision, like Mr. Knightley does, not realizing that Emma was here until it was too late.

**Iambbq**: Why thank you! There were fewer descriptions in this chapter, since Mr. Knightley is observing less, his tunnel vision took over. Honor was a different concept back in Emma's day than it is in ours, and Mr. Knightley who is an upstanding gentleman of the first degree could not help to take offense for Emma. Though a good part of his wanting to duel Frank is also because he doesn't think Frank deserves Emma either.

**ThoughtsthatFester**: Well she certainly tried! Despite stealing Isabella's horse though, she was too late to really stop it.

**Lady Krystalyn**: A fellow H/Hr shipper (there are so few of us!)! (I knew I'd seen your penname elsewhere :) Nope, not poor Mr. Knightley, though I do assure you, he WISHES he was shot. Haven't seen the 2009 version of Emma, I adored the '96 one though. Don't worry I intend to remedy this when I return from deployment though….

**Cutelilmochi**: Mr. Elton is rather useless, I just put him there because I felt like too many Knightley retainers and friends would counter-balance the fairness of the duel.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Yes, Mr. Knightley got tunnel vision and didn't realize Emma was there until too late. Neither did anyone else really, they were all absorbed in the duel, even Larkins if you noticed.

Chapter 4

Sitting motionless with my head bowed, trying to make sense of the whirlwind of thoughts tearing across my mind, I clutched her tiny cold white hand to my breast. My tears fell unchecked. My head was fuzzy and I felt like I couldn't move at all my despair was so heavy.

_Why Emma? I didn't need you to save me, this was to save you!_

I felt a hand on my shoulder, something unintelligible was being said to me.

_What if she dies because of your carelessness? You should have seen her coming!_

Someone shook me, I heard a roaring in my ears.

_EMMA! You can't leave me!_

Someone grabbed both my shoulders and roughly yanked me to my feet, I took a blind swing at whoever it was, and my fist collided with John's palm as he brought up his hand to block my blow.

John's face was distraught, as I knew mine was, so why did he disturb me?

The loud buzzing in my ears continued, but I heard John's voice cutting through this time, "George we have to get her back to the house, she needs to stop bleeding and get out of the cold or she'll get hypothermia with all that blood loss! You need to let her go if you want her to survive!" His voice was urgent and pleading.

I nodded curtly, and he took me by the shoulder, supporting me.

"I know you won't allow anyone else to, and there is no wain to bring her back to Donwell, which is closer than Hartfield, can you ride back with her to the house?" His voice was reaching a normal tone and the buzzing was beginning to subside.

_She might yet survive if you can get her out of here._

"Of course." I couldn't look at Emma just yet, the doctor was still ministering to her, no doubt trying to prepare her for the ride as well.

He sighed, "Emma brought her horse here, though I doubt you've noticed, I shall ride in front, you shall take the middle and the good doctor the rear."

"I need to get her out of the cold first!"

"Not if you crash into something because you aren't aware of your surroundings!" he hissed angrily. "George you are a wreck! The only reason I'm allowing you to bring her at all is we don't have time for the fight you would put up otherwise! Be reasonable!" he growled at me.

I sighed, and my gaze strayed over to her, she was so pale…too pale. Dr. Perry was doing his best to stop the bleeding though.

John grabbed my cape and his and proceeded to the doctor and Emma. It was at that point I noticed Mr. Elton hovering over her, unsure if he should be praying for her and giving her last rites or not.

I shoved him aside and helped my brother and the doctor wrap her up in a cocoon of our capes. John picked her up and carried her over to me on my horse where he and the doctor did their best for her.

"Ride cautiously, and not too fast or you will do her more damage than good." was Dr. Perry's command. John swung himself up, and kicked Emma's horse.

The ride to Donwell had never seemed so long and unbearable as it did now, with every minute outside counting, I longed for a full out gallop, but knew that Dr. Perry was right and John seemed determined to hold me in my place as we cantered up the narrow forest path to my family estate. Besides, holding on to an unconscious Emma and not using both hands to ride made things more complicated.

Eventually the tree line broke, and John urged his horse faster, skidding to a stop in front of the stone stairs which he wasted no time in scaling, throwing open the doors and shouting for help.

My usually quiet estate sprang to life and before the doctor could even get off his horse to help me, our old footman, Harry appeared out of nowhere, reaching his arms up for my precious friend, who I reluctantly released so I could dismount.

Knowing better than to challenge me though, Emma was immediately transferred back to me as soon as I had steadied my feet on the frozen ground. I carried her limp body, wrapped in her multi-color chrysalis towards the house where John motioned to the library, the nearest room with a large enough table to lay her safely on.

The wind whipped around the house, causing a loud howling noise, and I was never more glad to have her inside, throwing logs on the fireplace until there weren't any left in the stack I lit the fire and looked around feverishly for something else I could do to keep myself occupied.

_I needed to work. Lest I try to think._

John murmured something about going to fetch Isabella and Mr. Woodhouse to Donwell and left. My housekeeper was buried under a pile of steaming warm towels and Harry was poking the fire while the doctor bellowed for alcohol, vinegar, plates, needles and other assorted things.

Suddenly I was in the middle of a buzzing beehive, but I had nothing to do. My mind was going fuzzy again, and I could feel my vision swimming whether from grief or tears I do not know. I swallowed.

Emma was being removed from her wrappings and the doctor was assembling his tools on the end table. Mrs. Hodges laid warm towels over her body and then blankets on top of that, trying to keep the warmth in, she placed a stack of towels under her head.

_The blood. It was spreading everywhere. _

Her dress was stained crimson and her cape was slick with blood, it was pooling near her collarbone, even staining her shimmering hair. I shuddered and drew my hand over my face trying to erase the image. The buzzing was increasing again.

Dr. Perry turned to look at me, "Mr. Knightley I have a task for you." He said firmly, taking pity on me.

I jumped to his side without hesitation.

He looked me straight in the eye, "Roll your sleeves, run your hands through this vinegar completely, and then I need you take these scissors." He paused when I flinched at the word 'scissors.'

He willed me to look into his eyes, "I am not asking you to do anything other than cut away her clothes, I need to know how much fabric is inside the wound. You must disregard propriety for her life, and cut the entire shoulder of her dress off, as well as any fabric beneath." He paused again to make sure I comprehended. "Can you do this?"

I nodded mutely and did as he asked, dousing my hands and arms up to my elbows in vinegar to be safe, and the scissors as well. Then I set about the task of cutting away her dress. The cotton was thick and slippery with blood, and thankfully in her haste that morning Emma had not donned anything else other than her dress and some sort of finger-wide strap beneath it that most likely tied into her undergarments.

As directed I laid out of the offending garments on a white plate so they could easily be distinguished. My task complete I cast about for something else to do.

Then I realized my hands were covered in blood. _Her blood._ I am not a man who cringes at blood, I've hunted with my father since I was a boy, and gotten into a few scuffles throughout my school years that made for a bloody nose or two.

What I could not stand was Emma's blood. _All over my hands._ I started panicking, Dr. Perry was occupied about to start removing the bullet I imagined.

I grabbed the bottle of vinegar and poured it all over my hands and rubbed my hands against the towel, _there is too much of it._

_It won't come off!_ The buzzing was becoming overwhelming.

I tried the vinegar again, emptying the bottle, which I threw against the floor in frustration, it shattered. Mrs. Hodges came over to me.

I scrubbed it over and over. I felt cool hands on my own, staying the frenzy.

"Sire, I think you should come with me." She said calmly, taking my hands and a fresh towel with her, as she walked me to the far end of the room.

Still holding my hands her faithful old face met mine, tears in her eyes she spoke again, "Mr. Knightley, your hands are clean, trust me." She turned to Harry.

"Harry would you please go get the doctor another bottle of vinegar and a broom please?"

Then she slowly unwrapped the towel. I realized that while raw from the vinegar and scrubbing, she was right my hands were clean.

"See?" she said softly.

I nodded slowly, unable to speak. She led me back to Emma's side. "Would you be so kind as to talk to Miss Woodhouse? It often helps the patient when someone they know talks to them." She drew me up a straight-backed chair and set me down in it before continuing with her work.

Grasping Emma's free hand in mine, I rubbed it trying to make her warm again. _She is so cold._

I heard Harry sweeping up the glass in the corner, the doctor's heavy breathing and Mrs. Hodges' padding feet down the hall as she removed the soiled towels from my view.

Vaguely I heard Dr. Perry mention he was started the difficult part, and that he must not be interrupted. I nodded in assent. Closing my eyes I prayed like I never had before that Emma might live. _She's too young to die Lord…_

**A/N**: I must say I was more than a little disappointed by the lack of reviews (thanks to those that did though!) from such a dramatic chapter, hence the delay in this one. I really tried with that one, and I hope that it wasn't terrible. However, the following few chapters won't be so dramatic for a bit. Things need to calm down.

Sadly for me (though I suppose better for you all) this story has multiplied itself and I'm having a hard time containing it. I wanted it to be relatively short (under 10 chapters) that's not going to happen….

**Iambbq**: Yes, I'm not sure why I was thinking Dr. Pell, thanks for correcting my error! It's weird, this little random 'memories' of the two fo them keep popping into my head without being planned. I must say I like them though. Thank you also for your thoughtful review!

ThoughtsThatFester: Yeah, I got pretty emotional myself writing it, which made me happy (even though I was sad at the time), because I thought it made the chapter better.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Dr. Perry succeeded in removing not only the bullet, but the errant cloth from the wound as well. I had expected Emma to wake after that, but she did not.

The doctor said that due to her blood loss, she was not out of the woods yet, and there was always the threat of infection.

My vision swam from a combination of exhaustion and despair during those long hours and no respite came, no sign of life from my dear friend save the barely noticeable rise and fall of her chest.

I do not know how long I was there, or when I lost consciousness myself. All I know is the voices outside were at times hysterical, sometimes hushed, there was crying and oaths. The sun rose and fell. Every now and then someone would try to speak with me, but I did not respond.

The fire crackled the one constant. I think Isabella tried to make me eat something, but I pushed her away.

John, my thoughtful brother poured me a stiff drink and left it wordlessly by my table. It was gone before John stepped over the library threshold.

The stars came out, some candles were lit the fire was stoked and re-stocked. The voices retreated. My tears had long since dried on my face, I could not cry anymore.

I awoke to a strange sensation; someone was rubbing my scalp lightly. I opened my eyes and saw Emma smiling back at me, looking positively radiant in the first rays of sunlight streaming through the window. Granted, she was still pale beyond belief, but somehow that made her almost glow.

_I think this is what heaven looks like…_I feared I would burst with happiness at the sight of her awake, we had not so long before despaired of her ever waking!

Wordlessly I smiled back at her, and she whispered so softly I barely heard her, "Water?" she asked.

I jumped up, "Of course!" I scratched my head;_ surely there must be water here somewhere._

Scanning the room I found a pitcher laid out last night with some empty glasses and poured her some. Propping her head up carefully I helped her drink until she was satisfied.

When I sat back down she looked at me confused, "Why do I feel like I have an elephant sitting on my shoulder? Why am I wrapped like a mummy?"

I swallowed hard, "Emma," I began, tears threatening to form again and I blinked rapidly, succeeding only in causing one to fall. Realization began to dawn on her face.

"Frank shot you by accident yesterday, that bullet was meant for me." My voice so thick with emotion that I could barely get the words out, I was so ashamed I hung my head.

She smiled her brilliant dazzling bewitching smile and my heart nearly leaped out of my throat, "No George. I saved you. Remember?" she put her tiny cold finger to my lips.

_She used my Christian name._

_Emma never called me 'George' before._

She laid her head back down, the effort having exhausted her; she closed her eyes, murmuring, "Can't go having you die on me yet…" I tried to hear the rest of what she said, but she was already asleep again.

I played with her hand for awhile debating what she meant, but my mind, having determined that she was sure to recover rebelled against me and my lack of sleep for nearly two days, and I was asleep again before long.

The next thing I remember hearing was Isabella's voice floating into my conscious, "Should we wake him?" was her cautious whisper.

John's reply was quick, "If you don't wake him and move Emma-even assuming you could move her without him waking-he will be panicked and furious. Imagine if you were in his situation, and that was me lying there, and you were unsure if I should live or die. Removal of the patient without his knowledge might make him think she has died."

Isabella gasped, "Of course! I did not think that might be the result! Poor George! He must be so distraught!"

At this I started, finally my fogged brain comprehending they were talking about me. "Poor George who?" I sat up blearily looking at them with a large frown on my face.

John chuckled, and rubbed my hair in the manner I used to do with him when we were younger; it irritated me, which made him laugh.

"George you are truly impossible. My dear wife was debating if we should move her sister to a more comfortable location without waking you. Obviously, that decision has been made for us!"

Isabella smiled, "George, you looked like you needed your sleep, I did not wish to disturb you, but the danger for Emma has passed it seems, and the doctor would like to see her to more comfortable quarters before he leaves." She colored a little, no doubt expecting reprisal from me at the very idea of moving Emma without my knowledge.

After having completely taken leave of my senses yesterday though, I determined I should not do so again today. "Don't worry, I agree she should be moved." I turned to look at Emma, she seemed to be regaining some color, but she was still rather pale, yet there was a small self-satisfied smile on her lips. I tried to fight my own in response, recollecting our exchange from earlier.

_This woman will be the death of me. She clearly thinks she has bested me somehow._

"We shall move her upstairs to my room." I stated simply. I received raised eyebrows in response, but nothing else. Leaning out the door, suddenly full of more energy than I should have had after the events of the last twenty-four hours I bellowed for my housekeeper to ready my room for Miss Woodhouse.

_Emma was going to live!_ I could have danced for joy, but then I think John and Isabella would have truly locked me up in Bedlam. Even Mr. Woodhouse, disturbed from his paper-reading next door by my unusual candor gave me a quizzical look.

Mrs. Hodges gave me a curious glare as she bustled upstairs with the new housemaid.

"Mr. Knightley, are you sure you wouldn't like Mr. Perry to have a look at you before he departs?" Mr. Woodhouse inquired gravely.

At this John burst out laughing, and slapped me heartily on the back, knocking the breath entirely out of my lungs.

"I assure you father, he is quite alright, if not a bit overwhelmed." John laughed, leaving the room, but not without a knowing look. Isabella bustled off, mumbling something about finding me some food, leaving me in the hall with Mr. Woodhouse.

Father of the girl I'd almost had accidentally killed.

My mood immediately sobered. I bowed my head towards him, expecting his fury at placing his most precious daughter in the line of fire, albeit unintentionally.

"Mr. Woodhouse I-"

He interrupted me with the wave of his hand, "Mr. Knightley if you are going to blame yourself for this accident, then pray save yourself the breath. I know you did not intend for Emma to be injured, and you only did this out of the goodness of your heart." He paused for breath.

"Though you are far bolder man than I, I greatly admire your desire to defend my daughter to whom you have no official ties obligating you to do so. Emma is on the mend, and that is what matters. Let us pray that no Frank Churchills come to disturb our peace like this again. I do not think my old heart could stand any more such excitement."

With that he patted me on the shoulder and left me standing stunned in his wake as he walked in to check up on Emma.

She was still sleeping peacefully, and the tired Dr. Perry was checking her pulse, "I think she will be fine, the dangerous period has passed, all we need to be careful of now, is that she does not catch infection, or overexert herself." He concluded with satisfaction.

I felt like a fool for grinning from ear to ear, but I realized I didn't care.

Dr. Perry took one look at me as he walked out, "I shall check on her twice daily, starting tonight, and Mrs. Knightley knows Miss Woodhouse's medicinal regimen." He stopped in front of me, to put a hand on my shoulder, "Mr. Knightley, you should get some rest Sir."

With that the doctor left, and a few minutes later Mrs. Hodges returned downstairs to say that she had readied my room for Emma.

I carefully slide my arms under her thin frame, which without its cocoon from yesterday, was much lighter and easier to manage. She stirred and opened her eyes blearily, "George?" she asked.

"Yes Emma," I replied, "Now go back to sleep, we're just making you more comfortable." I moved towards the stairs.

She snuggled into a more comfortable position, "Why do you smell like vinegar?" she yawned.

_Well there are certainly worse things to smell of._

"Never you mind." I hushed her.

By the time I reached the top of the stairs Emma was awake. I transferred her to Isabella and Mrs. Hodges who moved her towards the bathing tub. I stood awkwardly in my own bedroom, knowing that they needed to clean her, but not wanting to let her out of my sight.

John stood leaning against the door frame with a smirk, "George she's right you smell dreadful, you should wash yourself!" I turned on my heel and strode towards him, he moved aside, but not before I slapped him upside the back of the head.

"Some brother you are, letting me know _after_ I bring the lady upstairs." I retorted sarcastically.

He chuckled, and I could feel my emotions settling into normalcy again.

Apparently I really _must_ have smelled, my servants had drawn the bath for me already and a fresh set of clothes had been laid out on the bed of my childhood room.

Removing my shirt I realized I also had Emma's dried blood in splotches on it. _Lord I'm a mess._ Without thinking twice about it, I tossed the shirt into the fire, I had plenty more.

After cleaning myself I did feel a lot better. Harry had laid out my classic black breeches, white socks, white linen shirt and green vest. I opted against a coat, there was no need for one with every fireplace blazing for Emma's sake.

As I tied the cravat around my ridiculously stiff collar, _why were_ _stiff collars in fashion these days anyway?_ I paused to remember that Emma always complained when I did not use a cravat pin, which was virtually every day. Harry had laid out a selection for me anyway, in the unlikely event that I did chose to wear one.

Chuckling to myself I picked up one of them, a non-descript brass one with a triplet of acorns, the Knightley symbol for generations untold. _Thirty-seven and changing your ways now for a girl?_

I was in an unusually entertaining mood. _Perhaps I will even get to talk to her about everything this afternoon._ Looking at my reflection in the glass though, my hair was still damp despite the rough application of a towel, thankfully I was not balding though, unlike poor John whose hair was thinning at the back of his head. _Lucky for him Isabella hasn't noticed…_

The worst part of my appearance was the circles under my eyes which nothing could be done about.

So I walked out into the gallery and sat down in an empty chair opposite my actual bedroom door, waiting for a summons. The long white walls were accented by the oriental carpet that spanned nearly the length of the hall, a present from my deceased uncle, Captain Knightley of the Royal Navy. He had sailed the world over almost before dying at Trafalgar along with Nelson. His Naval portrait hung at the end of the hall. A gruff, stern man who was obsessed with the Navy, but loved his nephews like we were his own children. He had never married.

The portraits of both my parents still flanked the double oaken doors of my bedroom, gazing at each other for eternity. I hadn't been able to bring myself to move them, much less replace them when I did not have a wife of my own.

John had pushed me on and off to have my portrait re-done, claiming it was important to the family's history, but I always brushed him off. The only one that ever been painted of me, was done at my father's behest during my Oxford days, and still hung near my childhood bedchamber door. I hadn't changed much since then, a few wrinkles perhaps, but I was lucky to have aged well.

My father had not been so lucky, after my mother's untimely death he seemed to age seven years to every one, and died himself eight years later. For my parents' marriage had been arranged, yet they truly loved each other, so rare amongst gentility these days. She the tiny little red-haired heiress from Scotland, and he fifteen years her senior and an Oxford honor graduate who occasionally sat in the King's Court to hear cases.

_Rather like the woman you've fallen for. The acorn does not fall far from the tree._

The doors to actual bedchamber creaked open to reveal Isabella, she walked out with a tired but happy expression, shaking her head when she saw me. "George, Emma's asleep, the bath and the medication have tired her. You may go see her, but please let her sleep."

I nodded silently, my heart fallen, as Isabella passed me she must have seen my disappointment, and rubbed my shoulder affectionately before moving downstairs.

**A/N:** Well this was a long one, and there will be more self-reflection from both Emma and George to come, this story is far from over yet.

**Iambbq**: Mr. Knightley is over-reacting about Emma and the blood (I am sure we are all surprised at this revelation). While she did bleed a good deal, it was her right shoulder and not her left which could have been fatal. However, she will not recover overnight either. I realize that I leaned a lot more on their siblings for this, but I think and I hope you will agree that in a time like this family will be more important to them than most of the regular townfolk. Thanks for your review!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Waking up in a massive, empty bed with strange hangings on the wall in a room I did not recognize, and still half-wrapped like a mummy I almost panicked.

Then my memory returned to me slowly, and my medicine-fogged brain realized that I must have been in Mr. Knightley's bedchamber. I'd never in all my years as his friend ever been here.

The faintly blue walls were of plaster, and covered in large, overstuffed bookcases, strewn over with papers and books, some open so not. _George it appeared, in his most private chamber, was rather untidy._ I giggled to myself at the thought of my straight-laced friend becoming so impassioned as to leave mess of papers, books and quills all over his chamber.

Some areas did not have bookcases though, like the ancient wardrobe standing to the right of the bed, it was so large and imposing that I think it could have easily held my much smaller wardrobe at Hartfield at least three times over.

There were matching dark-stained tables on either end of the bed, decorated with candles, pens and more paper on one, and two portraits on the other. One was clearly the Knightley family, taken at a time when both George's parents were still alive.

George was a spitting image of his own father, dark hair, tall, serious brown eyes, but with a charitable expression. However, elder Knightley was clearly in his fifties or sixties when this was done. His wife, a beauty who sadly I'd never met since she died mere days after my birth had a mischievous look to her green eyes, and her red hair nearly looked on fire.

The boys, or at least boys in John's case here, were much younger than they were today as well. John had clearly as a child anyway inherited his mother's penchant for mischief along with her red hair from the expression on his young face, and George, he was a young man, wearing his Oxford robes. Aside from the robes which I had never seen him in, the eyes, the expression was the same that he always wore. His honorable and charitable nature was visible ever from twenty years ago.

_He was always the more handsome of the two brothers anyway._ I thought with a blush, and wondered why Isabella had not fallen in love with him; though I was certainly glad she had not.

The smaller portrait, almost hidden behind the first from where I lay surprised me even more.

It was of a young girl when she was around sixteen years, long golden hair and hazel eyes, she was studiously avoided the painter though, and concentrating on her own easel. With a flash my memory recalled the day I had almost forgotten with perfect clarity.

"_Emma I don't understand why you are so against having your portrait painted if you insist on painting everyone else's." George chided with a laugh as he sat under the tree reading his book and posing for me. _

_The one time I'd actually gotten him to do so, insisting I needed a new model besides Miss Taylor and my father._

_Then Miss Taylor responded, "Mr. Knightley, Emma likes to give to joy to others more than herself."_

_Mr. Weston, who had joined us for the picnic and painting venture, and had just begun to embark his courtship of my governess then joined, "Perhaps she will allow her governess to paint her though while she is already busy, and needn't sit still for such a long time."_

_I turned from George to my governess and Mr. Weston, and saw the shy blush creep up her cheeks, and realized that I should have to allow the portrait to further their relationship._

_Sighing dramatically I replied, "At least I have not attempted to paint Miss Taylor myself, for I should never fully encompass her beauty. Though I have attempted many times-" here I caught George's eyes and they sparkled in a way only his could at our combined mischief then he winked at me, he had read my mind even before I had spoken it and was trying very hard to not laugh._

_It was at that point I realized that my friend, Mr. Knightley was devilishly handsome, and the surprise of it caught my words before I buried myself in my palette trying to hide the crimson wave sweeping my face, embarrassed at having looked at him that way._

_Recovering my composure, I continued, "However I shall not deny Miss Taylor the pleasure of painting myself now if she so desires, since I shall not have to sit still and avoid fidgeting for too long."_

So Miss Taylor had pulled out her own set, and her superior skills captured my essence in a much shorter period than it took me to set Mr. Knightley's on paper. I had not ever asked what had become of her portrait of me, until today, when I saw it here. Obviously either Miss Taylor had given it to him, or he had asked her for it.

The portrait I had taken of Mr. Knightley though, I knew where that was, hidden in a box of my treasured childhood items pressed between two books under my bed at Hartfield.

Every now and then I'd taken it out and stared at his expression from that day, proud I'd been able to capture it. I considered it my best portrait up till that point and was loath to part with it, despite Miss Taylor's chiding that if I wasn't willing to give it to the subject I should at least have it framed for our walls downstairs.

My childish self had been too jealous even then for that.

Just then there was a knock at the door, and I was startled from my reverie. It was Isabella with George not far behind her.

"Emma," she began in a soothing voice, and I remembered I was still an invalid-and bedridden at that. "We were hoping that you would like to eat something besides gruel," she opened the door further, and George turned to grab a tray of piping hot food. I realized as soon as I smelled it, that I was positively ravenous.

I looked eagerly up at him as he placed the bed-tray contraption over my legs, with a wordless smile.

Isabella then continued, "There are also some well-wishers from the village downstairs if you feel up to admitting them after you've eaten, they are most eager to see how you fare." She finished quickly but not before receiving a glare from George.

"Emma is too tired for visitors." Was his gruff response, and even I was a bit taken aback by his curtness.

I sighed. _There was likely the whole village downstairs, the Batses, the Eltons, the Coles, the Starrs, the Jensens…_

"Let me eat first, then I shall accept visitors for a short time today, none tomorrow though. This is to be a one time occurrence. I am not some strange zoo animal-"

George laid his arm on mine, and I was shocked by the difference in the temperature of our bodies, even under all these sheets my arm was very cool in comparison to his warm hand. It served to remind me, as he had no doubt intended, that I was still bed-ridden.

"There is one visitor you should see before the rest then, if you are to see everyone." He spoke quietly.

"Who might that be?"

"Mrs. Weston is most distraught about the situation." He said evenly.

_Of course! My poor governess! She must be afraid I will hate her after what her stepson did to me!_

My expression changed completely, "Send her up now, I shall put poor Mrs. Weston's mind at ease in regards to this sad affair."

George's expression however did not, "Emma you must eat something, you have not eaten real food in two days." He protested.

"Then Isabella shall fetch Mrs. Weston, and I shall eat while I wait, will that make you happy?" I retorted, poking him childishly.

He gave me a little smile, and with his help cutting the food, I was able to eat.

I was obviously very hungry though, consuming most of the food before my old governess entered, and my father shortly behind her.

"Emma dear!" she exclaimed rushing to me, and then stopping short, unsure of my reaction.

I reached my good arm to her, "Mrs. Weston, how very glad I am to see you!" I smiled.

She came forward with some hesitancy, "Truly?"

"Of course, you are by no means at fault here and likely found out about this situation after the fact, much like myself." I extended my arm to her again.

She sighed with relief, and George backed off a little to allow her to move next to me, Mrs. Weston then looked me in the eye truly, "Then you are not attached to Mr. Frank Chuchill?"

It was as if the mood in the room went from a sunny day to a black sky under pouring rain in that silver of time. My father's face darkened, Isabella turned to fix something on her skirt, and George's face flashed from anger and bitter jealousy to sadness and melancholy in as many seconds.

Were it not for the black mood, I would have marveled at reading my friend's face so easily, and at his lapse in covering emotions. Mrs. Weston almost instantly realized she had misspoken, and covered her mouth.

Everyone in the room was hanging on my response.

"I-" I cleared my throat, glancing at George who looked nearly as miserable as he had the morning of the duel, "I was at one point attached to Mr. Churchill, but in recent days I realized he lacked an honesty and frankness that I value in friends-" I paused to glance at George again whose face relaxed a little before he turned around to face the wall, and block his face from mine.

"In short." I finished, staring at the knot I'd made in my bedclothes unknowingly and realizing with perfect clarity how very important my next words were, "Mr. Churchill has used myself to be sure, but he has not wounded me. I did not love him, nor do I. I was actually to turn him down not two mornings ago." George released a breath I didn't realize he'd been holding, and turned around looking more hopeful than I'd ever seen him.

Isabella looked up with a smile, and even my father had a small grin playing on his lips, but Mrs. Weston was positively beaming.

"That's my girl," said my father, "Emma never falls for just any young gentleman." He chuckled to himself, as he turned to head out waving his finger in the air to make his point, "It'll take a man worth more than life to her to make her quit Hartfield." He winked at me just before he ducked out.

_What has gotten into my father?_

I felt a blush creeping up my cheeks at his words, knowing he'd just as well told everyone in the room I was in love with George. I couldn't even bring myself to look at him.

_What if George only thought he loved me because he pitied me? The motherless child who was supposedly swept off her feet by a handsome rake._

Resisting the urge to bury my face in my hands and confirm my father's words, I went back to knotting poor George's bedsheets.

"Emma are you feeling alright?" Mrs. Weston said, forcing me to look at her. I wanted to weep, to rage and scream, this whole situation was intolerable.

All I wanted to do was talk to George, but everyone was conspiring against me.

"I'm quite fine." I smiled briefly, but in glancing at her, I saw a twist of a smile on her lips and a twinkle in her eye. _She knows._

_Everyone knows except George._

Just then the door opened and John stood there, breaking the awkward silence.

Everyone turned to look at him, and he wore a confused expression on his face, "I only came to see if Emma was ready for more visitors. What is going on here?"

"Nothing, nothing at all. Please bring them in." I replied, my fake smile rolling into place over my face, to assure all but those who knew me best, that everything was indeed well.

The next few hours were a blur of well-wishers from the entire town it seemed, even Harriet overcame her fear of sick people to come visit me. I felt more than a tad ungrateful though since I really couldn't wait for them all to be gone.

When finally everyone left, Dr. Perry came over and pronounced me progressing well. He cautioned against excessive exercise and exertion, and said to sleep more since my body needed to conserve its energy to heal, rather than conduct activity.

Mrs. Weston at that point took her leave, and assured me that Mr. Weston was keen on my recovery as well. She turned to George before leaving.

"Mr. Knightley, I do beg-"

He held up a hand to shush her, and I smiled at his reaction, George, ever the charitable friend, not holding Frank against his stepmother.

"There is nothing to forgive Mrs. Weston, I do not hold either you or your husband at fault for actions which were not your own, and which you had no knowledge of." He extended his hand to her.

She smiled and shook it, "I want to assure you though, as soon as the doctor's apprentice tended his wound, we packed him off to his aunt's house with an earful and he knows he is no longer welcome in our house. My husband means to disinherit him entirely."

"I will leave your familial dealings to you and your husband." George said smoothly.

She nodded, with a quick curtsy, something I hadn't seen her do for Mr. Knightley in ages, she ducked out calling over her shoulder, "Feel better Emma!"

Isabella clapped her hands, "Well once Emma has her medicine, I propose that we spend the afternoon in here entertaining her!"

I looked dolefully at the glass with murky water in it.

"Do I have to?" I whined

George laughed, "Yes you do Emma." He handed me the glass.

"It makes me sleepy and I don't like sleeping all day, and I think it's affecting my emotions too." I complained with a frown.

"Emma." He drew out my name.

"Very well." I responded without enthusiasm, and downed the whole glass, shaking my head and wincing, "Doesn't even taste good. Ick…"

John returned with a backgammon table from the library, and Isabella was browsing the bookshelves for something to read, my father arrived with his newspaper. George left my side to acquire some additional chairs, and John reached into the bottom of one of the larger more intimidating bookcases to bring out a bottle of Scottish Whiskey and three glasses.

Isabella returned with a tray of tea for the two of us, and everyone settled in.

My father and George sat at the backgammon board, John pouring the whiskey. Isabella settling on _Gulliver's Travels_ a safe choice. John sat a glass in front of his brother, who promptly picked it up and drained it, placing it back in front of John.

John shook his head and refilled the glass, promptly corking the bottle and re-stowing it to its hiding place. Isabella and I exchanged worried glances.

_This was very unlike George._

My father, thankfully had not noticed.

Oddly enough, the afternoon went smoothly though, unless you count George losing to my father, which to my knowledge had never occurred, nothing seemed amiss.

John ribbed him for it, and George glared in response. At that point I was nodding off anyway, the medicine having finally taken affect.

The last thing I remembered was Isabella affectionately brushing my head before I drifted off.

**A/N:** Well what did you all think? A rather quiet chapter I suppose, but I think it was needed after all that drama. The reflections might be boring to some I suppose, but I like to think it shows the depth of their relationship.

**Iambbq:** Thank you so much for your faithful reviewing! Yes I did enjoy making George act like a child, but I think kit shows how very much he loves her, and how distraught he was that his emotions (normally very well hidden) could swing like that.

As for declarations there will be one, but like I said this story seems to want to drag itself out longer than I'd intended, so don't expect it soon…


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7_

That evening I was drowsily awakened as Dr. Perry was leaving, and my father and George were in the room. With a nod to my father, George followed the doctor out, leaving me alone with my father, who sat beside the great bed in a comfy chair, and looked intently at me for awhile without saying anything.

Finally, I broke the silence, "What is it father? Is something wrong?"

He shook his head with a small laugh, "No my dear, I am just trying to process all the changes that have occurred to you in the last few days."

"Whatever do you mean?" My confusion must have been evident on my face.

He leaned forward. "I must confess something my dear, once, a very long time ago…" he stopped and sighed.

"Once a very long time ago, there was a very happy couple with two daughters, and one of them was a newborn, seven years younger than her sister. Both children were equally beloved by their parents of course, but there was a memory the mother held of her youngest child, that she could not shake."

"For you see, a young man who lived next door came over to visit a few days after their youngest was born, but he was distraught because his mother had just died in a terrible accident that morning."

"The couple were surprised to see the young man because they thought he would be with his family, however he felt the need to congratulate them on their child, and confessed he needed to be reminded that there was still good in the world."

"So the mother brought forth her youngest daughter, and the young man's face instantly lit up, the baby took ahold of his thumb, and would not give it up." My father stopped to laugh, "The young man was so entranced by her, that he came to visit every day thereafter to see the young girl. Even though he was much older than her, the bond between them was inexplicable."

"One night the mother told her husband, 'Mark my words, one day he shall marry our girl, the bond between them is too strong for anyone else to break it apart'. The years passed though, and the girl's mother died herself, not too long after that." He sighed and rubbed his brow, "And the girl's father thought that perhaps neither his daughter nor his neighbor should marry, since even their siblings married, but he did not."

"Then one day a stranger arrived in town, and everyone thought the young girl would fall in love with him, but her father remembered her mother's words, and chuckled to himself. The neighbor though, was not so sure, and he realized at long last that this child, this girl was now a beautiful young lady, and that he loved her. Except he though that he'd lost her to the stranger. So, in desperation and fear of the stranger's intent he challenged him to duel over her, and the young lady realized what happened after she read her neighbor's letter. She realized that she loved him…and her father realized that his wife had been right all along."

My father finished, looking at me with tears in his eyes as he reached out to clasp my hands, "My dearest child, you know I could not part with you for the world." A tear fell, and he paused to wipe it away before continuing, "However, it seems that your world is not complete without Mr. Knightley, and I cannot prevent your happiness. Please know I should not have parted with you for anyone less deserving or honorable than he. Indeed, I think it is only he that I should have parted with you for, because I know he will treat you as you deserve."

His kind words, so unexpected, brought tears to my eyes as well, though it was awhile before I spoke, "Father he does not know that I love him though, I have not been able to tell him."

He smiled back at me, "It is your story to tell dear child, but do not make him suffer long." With that my father rose and walked over to the table, grasping my medicine he proffered it to me, and I took it, drinking it to make him happy.

"Sleep well my dear." He whispered, kissing my forehead as I snuggled down into the bedsheets.

I woke early the next morning, the autumn sun streaming through the high windows above the bed, and falling on me. I sat up in surprise, there was no one in my room…

I giggled to myself, listening as the clock struck seven in the morning. I knew George was an early riser, but my father and Isabella were not, there was a chance that nobody was up yet.

A wicked thought came into my head. _I shall surprise them, and meet them downstairs for breakfast._

Moving slowly, so as to not cause myself to faint, I stood and walked over to the giant wardrobe, looking for a dressing gown in which to present myself downstairs.

I was to be disappointed though, the doors creaked open to reveal only male clothing. George's obviously. My hand strayed towards one of his starched linen shirts. I resisted the inexplicable desire to run my hand down the length of it and smell it, fearing being caught at it, I closed the doors instead.

Surveying the room, there were two doors on either side, one lead to the bathing chamber, as I had discovered when I first moved up here, the other, I did not know. Pushing off from my support against the wardrobe, I slowly walked to the opposite door.

Upon opening it I found a passage that lead to yet another door and another passage to the right which lead me to a room the size of my bedchamber at Hartfield.

There was a lady's vanity at the end, covered in a dustcloth and the walls were lined with shelves filled with every imaginable lady's accoutrement. Hat boxes, Dress bags, shoe boxes and a massive leather casket with a decidedly old feminine lock that must have contained the former Mistress of Donwell's jewelry.

I felt like I was intruding on something very personal. Clearly neither George nor his father had seen fit to move these articles for a reason even after his mother had been gone for over twenty years.

_I could not go downstairs in nothing but my night shift though._

As quickly as I dared, I went through the lower dress bags and finally found one that looked promising enough to hold nightclothes.

Pulling out the first dressing gown I laid hands on I immediately realized it would be too short for me, but all of them were likely to be that way since obviously the former Mrs. Knightley was at least a hand's length shorter than me. Putting in on was a task, but I accomplished it, and blushed with how very sheer the silk seemed. Thankfully a box containing slippers was nearby, and I put them on my cold toes, not without wincing though from first the blood rushing to my head, and then because they pinched my feet.

Feeling like a criminal I walked back to the main bedroom, thankfully no one was there, and I tip-toed out through the massive oaken doors into the deserted hallway.

I was almost startled to see George's parents' portraits still hanging on either side of the doors. _Though, I reflected, George is just as likely as I am to have his portrait painted voluntarily._

Then I came to the stairs, taking a deep breath and a death grip with my good hand I proceeded down the first step, and then the next.

Pausing at the landing I could hear laughter downstairs in the dining room, which meant everyone was up, but I could feel a cold sweat starting at my brow, and I looked at dismay with the longer flight of stairs down to the main floor.

_I will not turn back now. I will not._

Steeling myself, I began my arduous tread again. Halfway down I felt dangerously light-headed and had to pause. Still amazed that no one had caught me thus far.

Finally after what seemed an eternity I reached the doorframe of the dining room, and the reaction I received was not what I'd been hoping for.

Isabella noticed me first, and her fork clattered loudly on her plate, George's head swung in my direction at an almost inhuman speed, and his laughter died on his lips, John looked up in amazement, and my father dropped his newspaper in his eggs.

"Emma!" my father exclaimed

"You shouldn't be here-" George said at the same time

Isabella jumped from her seat the same time he did, but George was closer and grabbed my left arm to steady me, "You're too cold and you're sweating, Emma, why?" he scolded his tone very angry.

"She needs to sit and eat George." Isabella interrupted, John called for more food, and my sister helped me to a chair by George who angrily sat back down.

_I just wanted to surprise you._ My face was scalding hot and I longed to bury it in my hands as the awkward silence ensued.

Eventually John started talking about something inane at his firm in London and Mrs. Hodges brought in a plate of food for me, which George cut without so much as speaking to me or even looking at me. His anger was palpable.

I picked at my food nervously, only really eating half of it. _Why are you angry at me? I just wanted to surprise you!_ I wanted to scream at him, and weep at the same time.

Glancing at Isabella, she sent me a sympathetic smile, but returned to her food. My father was reading a humorous article he'd found, and everyone laughed heartily at it, but me.

I stood up, and both John and George rose, "Excuse me." I whispered, and I tried to bolt.

George caught my arm though just before I was out of the door, "Oh no you don't. You're not walking up those stairs again." Before I could protest he swept me quite off my feet and started carrying me upstairs.

I was furious though, _how dare he ignore me! How dare he pretend he was in charge of me!_

"Just what do you think you are doing?" I asked him coldy as he began the stair.

"Bringing you back to your chamber." Was his equally cool reply.

He was about halfway up the stairs now.

I pounded my good hand against his chest, "You are not in charge of me!" I hissed loud enough for Isabella who was bringing up the rear to hear.

"Put me down!" I demanded

He ignored me and crossed the landing in one stride, "You are not in charge of me, you are not my father or my husband, let me go!"

If I thought he was angry before that, I was wrong. His entire face went blank, but he replied in a voice completely void of emotion, "You are right, I am neither your father nor your husband; however I am your concerned friend who does not want you further damaging your health."

At this point he threw open the doors to his bedchamber with a resounding crack that reverberated down the entire gallery, tinkling glassware down somewhere at the end.

He laid me gently down on the bed and pivoted with an almost military precision on his heel to leave the room just as quickly. Slamming the door again behind him.

I heard hurried footsteps racing down the stairs. Isabella, my faithful sister who had followed me looked at me completely aghast, "Emma! What have you done?" she exclaimed.

I shook, scared at what I had done to my friend, I had never seen George lose his temper like that. Then the tears finally came, "Oh Isabella! I'm so sorry, please tell him! I'm so sorry!"

**A/N: **So what think you all? I would appreciate more reviews Don't worry Mr. Knightley's view is coming in the next chapter! There's really no rhyme or reason to whose POV it is for the chapter, except towards the beginning and the end.

**IamBBQ**: Well I had envisioned the scene in his bedroom, but I suppose that would be outrageously improper, even if he was sleeping across the hall. The idea is though, in time of great sickness (or injury) propriety flies out the window. Highbury is a close-knit town and they care about their own deeply. So that's why I had them all so eager to visit her. Yes, it was the whiskey he drank too fast, it's because he still doesn't know Emma's feelings for him. The lack of knowledge is killing him….oh the suspense….I am torturing poor Mr. Knightley. He is such a good man I feel bad doing it, but it is necessary for the plotline.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Thunder cracked in the distance, and the rain was coming down in sheets, I returned my steaming horse to the stable, it was well past both my dinner time, as well as my poor horse's. I nodded at my stable hand, Geoffrey, he would see to my horse. Though I was sure to give him an affectionate pat on the neck before returning to the rain and my trek back to the main house.

I wondered what would meet me there, Emma had made it quite clear this morning she wanted nothing more to do with me. While the doctor warned that in addition to making her sleepy her medication would amplify her emotions, I hadn't thought it would be this bad.

Glancing at the side door, I was tempted to sneak inside but I knew John was very concerned about me this morning when I'd left in haste, so I stalked up the front steps, disliking already the dramatic entry I was sure to cause.

My temper had cooled though, and I realized that I had been living under the illusion that Emma might actually be in love with me after all, since she had thrown herself in front of Frank's gun for me.

This morning shattered that though, all if anything she ever saw me as was a dear friend, and I might not even be that anymore.

I opened the door cautiously, half-expecting that the Woodhouses had retired to Hartfield despite her condition. The house was rather silent though, eerily so.

I handed old Harry my wet jacket and boots. Having left when there was no rain, and in a fit of anger, I had not brought a cape at all.

Which had resulted in my being thoroughly drenched, a feeling I relished. There was nothing more invigorating to clear the mind than a good ride, especially one in the pouring rain.

I dripped my way over to the library where John and Mr. Woodhouse were playing backgammon and Isabella was sewing. _Well at least they had not left._ John saw me first.

"Why George you look positively dreadful." Was his dry greeting.

"Well your hair is thinning on the back of your head, brother." I shot back, not waiting for a reply I needed to know what Emma was thinking.

Isabella called after me from the bottom of the stairs as quietly as she could and still be heard as I charged up them pell mell, "She's probably sleeping."

Her words halted me in my tracks, and I stopped to listen for any sounds of movement from Emma's room.

I heard nothing, so I walked silently down the hall. Then I dumped my things in a heap in front of the door, I knocked, and without waiting for an answer opened the door.

Of all the sights I expected, a book tossed angrily in my direction, a peaceful Emma sleeping, or even one eating her dinner silently I was not expecting to find her as I did.

She looked up at me with startled eyes that near burned with pain from where she had been interrupted, mid-stride in pacing back and forth across the room. Silent tears streaming down her face as she clutched her right arm.

_Emma was in pain, a lot of pain._ My eyes swept around the room, and noticed her glass of medicine untouched on the table, and with a further look, the second appeared just out of ordinary view under the bed.

I walked up to her, but stopped short, "Emma why?" I asked her softly, extending my arm to her if she chose to accept it.

"I'm s-so-sorry." She cried, "I d-didn't mean it, I swear I didn't. I don't know what has come over me." She closed her eyes and cringed, whether from pain or fear of what I was to say I could not tell.

"Emma please look at me," I walked a little closer, wanting to embrace her, but unsure if I should. Her hesitant and nervous upward glance towards me nearly broke my heart.

"Why didn't you take your medication?" was my simple question, but my tone belied my violent feelings. _I was trying so very hard not to explode at her again, for taking her health into her hands like this. It wouldn't do though; she was in extreme pain and had clearly done it out of a guilty conscience. _

"It makes me sleep, and I-I wanted to talk to y-you when you came back." She cried.

I took her in my arms, gently to avoid her wound, but she flinched nonetheless. _Had we really come to this?_ My heart sank at her reaction, and I wondered if I could ever repair this.

She did not back away though.

"So you did not take you medicine all day?" I asked evenly, but despairing of what I knew she would say.

"Yes." She sobbed. _Why Emma? There was no reason for you to do this to yourself…_

"How did you fool the doctor and Isabella?" I asked

"I hide it, and pretended I was asleep." She replied, talking into my soaked shirt.

Then I remembered. I was soaking wet, and she was in critical condition. I was going to get her sick, if nothing else.

"Let's get you back to bed." I said gently. She shook her head violently.

"We need to talk." She hiccuped through her tears.

"Emma I cannot countenance talking to you when you are in so much pain. It is not fair to you." I pleaded with her.

She finally looked up at me, and even though her eyes were puffy and red with tears I still thought her the most beautiful creature in the world.

"Will you take your medication and go to bed if I promise to talk with you tomorrow?" I asked

"Why not now?" she asked softly

"Because I would rather read to you." _Which was not true, we needed to talk, that much was quite obvious, but I could not talk to her about things so close to the heart when she was in so much pain._

Emma's golden head finally bobbed an assent, and I carried her to the bed and laid her down again, tucking her in up to her chin before swishing her murky medication up and offering it to her.

She drank it reluctantly, and I poured the older one out the window.

So I walked over to the fireplace, threw on a few more logs for good measure, to warm both her and myself from my rain-spattered clothes, and then I ran through the titles in my bookshelves until I found one.

"You've always loved Shakespeare's plays." I said softly, "Have you heard his sonnets though?"

I settled into the cushioned chair next to her and cracked the old volume open to a random page and began to read, awkwardly, knowing exactly what I was doing, both hating, myself and yet hoping against hope she would not throw me out of the room.

"_Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?_" I cleared my throat and wished I'd poured myself a glass of whiskey before starting. Emma however, rolled onto her left shoulder to look at me curiously.

So I swallowed and continued, "_Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,"_

I paused again to look at her, and she smiled, but said nothing, and a tiny knot formed in the bottom of my stomach, I ran my fingers through my still damp hair and bit my lip, but raised my voice a little louder this time, "_And summer's lease hath all too short a date:_

_Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;_

_And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd;"_

Then Emma reached over towards me, and grasped my free hand, and I caught my breath at her unexpected move, but continued on, not daring to glance at her, "_But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest; So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee…"_

Reaching the end, I dared a glance at her, and realized her eyes were closed, and she was breathing normally.

_At least she shall have a peaceful sleep now. Perhaps it was better this way anyway._ I closed the book, uncrossed my legs and carefully extricated my hand from hers. I knelt over her briefly, kissing her forehead and trailing my fingers through her luminous hair.

I wondered, as I blew out the candles and closed the doors, what exactly Shakespeare himself would write if he saw her as an angel lying there….

The next morning I went in to check up on her, and she was still slumbering peacefully, and the clock in the gallery tolled half past six. Feeling like a trespasser in my own bedchamber I scrawled a note for her on a scrap of paper I found on my desk.

"_Do not think I have forgotten our conversation from last night, we shall speak this morning. I have decided to go for a stroll in the gardens, and shall be back within the hour."_

I almost left it at that, but looking on her asleep there with the sunlight pouring over her I felt almost sick to my stomach that such a beautiful caring creature as she could marry anyone else. Nearly biting off the end of my quill entirely I ransacked my brain for some obscure verse I had read back in my Oxford days written by a poet whose name I could not recall…

The smell of the dusty medieval poetry volume flashed through my mind and I could see the fancy script within it in perfect clarity:

"_Not dying nor living nor healing_, _there is no pain in my sickness_, _for I_ _am not kept from her love_. _I __don't know if I will ever have_ _it_, _for __all the mercy that makes me flourish or decay is in her power_."

I scrawled the words more quickly than normal, before I could lose my nerve to do so. I swept out of the room while the ink was still drying and grabbed a cape from the hook near the door as I strolled out.

**A/N**: I know it was short, but the next chapter is her POV, so I couldn't make it longer. Sorry for the wait, I got tied up in real life events. Reviews are appreciated!

**Iambbq**: Well as was mentioned, the medication is messing with her emotions, and she is having some serious mood swings, and George has no idea what to think. One minute she's hot the next she's cold and he's super confused.

**Jan**: Patience, I promise it will happen


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** To make up for the last, short chapter. Kudos to anyone who can figure out where I stole that 'medieval French poetry verse' from. No it's not Shakespeare….

**Chapter 9**

I opened my eyes to someone closing the door of my room, and I looked about confused, trying to find the individual, but clearly they had just left.

The night-table beside the bed had been somewhat straightened, though I smiled at George's inability to rid himself of all his scribbled notes, when I noticed one of the notes still had fresh ink.

Taking stock of the room I recognized the quill still dripping ink, and with a mutilated feather tip sitting on his desk in the corner of the room.

"_Do not think I have forgotten our conversation from last night, we shall speak this morning. I have decided to go for a stroll in the gardens, and shall be back within the hour._

_Not dying nor living nor healing_, _there is no pain in my sickness_, _for I_ _am not kept from her love_. _I __don't know if I will ever have_ _it_, _for __all the mercy that makes me flourish or decay is in her power_."

His words made me blush, and I tried to cover the smile playing on my lips with my good hand.

_And George thinks he's not romantic._

The real question was, how could I tell him without him physically saying it first? It would be considered forward if I told him that I loved him before he said it.

For yes, he had written me that very beautiful and tragic letter, but I needed him to say it to my face.

So I sat impatiently in bed awaiting his return, and contemplating how I could make him admit that he loved me, without saying it first, or humiliating him.

The eventual plan I developed was not ideal, but I saw no other recourse.

Before the hour had elapsed there was an insistent knock upon the thick oak, and I responded with a light tone, "Come in." I fought the blush I could feel creeping up my face again.

George entered, with damp boots and dark windswept hair with his heart-stopping smile plastered on his handsome face, and I thought I should lose my resolution before he'd even spoken a word. I could not help but admire the fine figure he cut, especially when he looked as energized as he did coming in from the outdoors he loved.

He came to my side, "You shall never guess!" he exclaimed grasping my slightly warmer hands in his chilly ones, and I looked with bemusement at the wet leaves he'd tracked in unknowingly on his boots.

"What?" I could not help the smile on my face, his enthusiasm was contagious.

A sneaky smile played upon his face, and his eyes bespoke mischief. _I wonder if he was able to tell so easily from my face when I attempted the same thing?_

"It is simply a stunningly beautiful day outside, and since you cannot enjoy it, I have brought you the very first of Donwell's apple harvest." He offered me the green round fruit with triumph, "I promise you I stole it right form under cook's nose and she shall be most upset to see her count is off for the apple pie tonight."

I laughed at him, _it is ironic that even though he was thirty-seven he looks like a little boy right now. Was this was a young George Knightley looked like growing up?_

"Only you George would think you could steal your own apples from your own kitchen!" I exclaimed.

His face fell, "Then you don't like my surprise?"

"No! I'm just saying you can't steal your own apples silly!" I poked him in the ribs.

He lunged towards me, like he was going to start tickling me as we had in the old days and I screamed like a little girl, but then he suddenly stopped himself, whether because I was injured, or grown I did not know.

He reached back and awkwardly scratched the back of his neck, not sure what to do, "Hmm…John is leaving today to head back to London, he says he cannot leave his work for so long, but Isabella shall stay on at least another week or so to see that you are well."

_Perfect excuse for heading downstairs!_

I threw off my bedcovers, and his quizzical brow asked me what I intended.

"I am going to see John off, and you are going to help me." I stated simply, brooking no denial in my tone. As if to emphasize my point, I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed, but had to pause for a second due the light-headed feeling that resulted from my rapid movement.

He swallowed, "Are you sure that is a good idea?" I heard the tone in his voice; it was the same one he used when I told him I was intent on doing something he thought was a bad idea. _He did not come straight out and challenge me though, he was trying to not be controlling._

"Quite sure," I replied with a bright smile, that I hope reassured him, "I am going to fetch your mother's dressing gown and slippers, and perhaps a shawl to please father. Then you are going to help me put my hair up." I stood up in front of him, looking him directly in the eye, daring him to challenge my suggestion, "Then you will help me down the stairs."

"John would not wish to trouble you so much, he can come upstairs to say goodbye." Was his first objection. Though his deep brown eyes spoke another story, there was an emotion there that I had seen a few times before and could not really place; it seemed he was at war within himself.

"After all he has done for me, I cannot countenance making him come out of his way." I replied evenly.

He turned away from my stare and made for the door, "I shall call Bridget then for your hair, and I will return when she is finished."

"Bridget is no doubt quite busy between cook and dinner and your brother departing, there is no need to bother her."

"Then I shall fetch Isabella."

"And deprive her of her last minutes with her dear husband before he departs?! I should think not! No, you _shall_ help me with my hair George, I insist!" I crossed my arms and glared at him.

He turned around, and there was a look of defeat on his face, but he gallantly tried to broach another argument "Must you put up your hair? You have received nearly every man in the town just a few days ago with your hair unbound, not to mention both myself and my brother."

"My father dislikes change, and it is only acceptable as an invalid to leave one's hair down, it has distressed him greatly that I have been unable to properly do my hair."

I had completely made that part up, but George needn't know.

"I don't know how to do a lady's hair." He said plainly, and his tone pleaded with me to let him out of this.

"It is quite easy, I can tell you how."

"Emma I fear it is not proper." He sighed and ran his fingers through his own hair not meeting my gaze. _I almost feel sorry for him, he is so clearly trying to play the proper gentleman._

"It is not proper for me to go downstairs like this! We are wasting time, besides I'll reckon you're the only one who still knows where your mother's hair things are anyway." I tried to reason with him, but both of us knew he was at the end of his rope.

He looked at me quickly, and then away again out the window, "Very well." He sighed.

"I promise you it is not the torture you think it to be." I smiled playfully in response. I lead the way through the side door towards his mother's dressing chamber.

He was just a step behind me, "Emma I could never find any minute with you torture, that is not why I protested, and you know it." His words were heavy with multiple meanings, and made me feel incredibly guilty for forcing him into this_. I was just trying to get him to admit what he already had, only in words!_

He withdrew the dustcloth from the vanity set, a cloud of dust erupted, causing both of us to sputter and cough.

"I don't believe this has seen the light of day in twenty-one years." He said clearing his throat.

"You are not angry with me for using your mother's things?" I asked concerned

His smile almost made my hear skip a beat, "No, it is good they're finally seeing some use again, there has not been a mistress here in a long time."

My traitorous face began to blush again, and I had to fight it down. He pulled out the stool and motioned for me to have a seat. The set was truly beautiful in an almost haunting way, the soft plaid cushion that covered the seat, the dark stained wood with a beveled glass mirror sitting on the table inlaid with a giant ivory thistle.

He started rummaging through the drawers as I traced the inlaid thistle on the table. "Was your mother Scottish?" I asked. _It would explain the plaid and the flower._

"Yes," he replied, tossing a pile of hair pins on the table, before returning to his search.

"She was a beauty, flaming red hair with a petite frame and bright green eyes. Much younger than my father, but they loved each other more than any couple I've met since." He chuckled and stood with a hair brush which he laid on the table, pausing to reminisce. "They fought all the time though; my father said she was so headstrong. After they finished, he would always storm out of the house for a long walk, and she would go play melancholy pieces on the pianoforte, or hide in her hothouse of flowers until he returned."

"When he returned, she cried and he hugged her, and all was right in the world." He knelt down again to continue his search, this time for ribbons. "She loved John, my father I fiercely, but she was charitable and compassionate too."

He stood and placed handful of multi-colored ribbons on the table for my choice.

I moved my glance from his mother's hair ribbons to his face, "George," I swallowed, almost afraid to utter my question, and terrified of his reaction, but something in me had to know the answer to the question I'd never been able to ask him. "George, h-how did your mother die?"

He looked down, and pulled at a few strands of errant red hair in the brush, removing them and tying them in knot which he placed carefully on the shelf. "She died in a terrible accident." He said softly, not looking at me, "Returning from a charity event in London, her carriage overturned, and she, my mother, she was so small…"

I could hear the tears threatening in his voice, and I felt dreadful for bringing back these excruciating memories. I stood and laid my hand on his shoulder, rubbing it as best I could to comfort him.

He swallowed, "My father when he received the news was so beside himself with grief that he could not bring himself to go confirm it was her. He had me recalled from Oxford, and sent me to London to do so. She was so beautiful, but she was too frail to survive what happened."

I covered my mouth in shock. _How would I have reacted to see my own mother's body mutilated by a carriage accident? It must have been a terrible, gruesome sight._

"That is why you wanted to see me when you returned, to remind yourself the world was not so dark." I answered softly comprehension finally dawning on me.

He turned around to face me again, a weak smile on his face, "Yes Emma," he laughed nervously, grasping my hands in his, "Your smiling baby face and stubborn theft of my thumb helped heal that wound."

"Well I'm glad at least at some point in my life I have helped heal rather than hurt you." I murmured.

His face flashed with an emotion I had difficulty placing, I had seen it before though, but I could not place where.

"Emma," he began with such hope on his face and then seemed to change course, "Your friendship is more than worth every bad day that might have resulted from it."

His face was a mere hands width from mine, I could smell his intoxicating scent, it reminded me of pine needles and the meadow after a good hard rain. I shivered involuntarily, but he recovered himself.

"Come now, let's do your hair before they think we have been abducted by gypsies or worse." He sat me down and began brushing out my hair. I closed my eyes, relishing the feel of his hands running through my hair.

The silence hung between us like a magical spell as he worked his way through all the snarls in a fashion even more gentle than Bessie back at home. Finally he finished, to my surprise, and asked what he needed to do next.

"I would assume I should tie your hair with one of these?" he queried picking up a ribbon.

I nodded, he selected one of the white ones and then tied it off, he then piled the remainder of my hair around my head, with the ribbon interwoven, pinning it in place as he went.

"For someone who claims not to know how to do hair, you have done a good job." I spoke softly.

"My mother might have let me do her hair once or twice when I was a boy." He replied sheepishly, "her long red hair fascinated me…"

He was trying to push an errant curl in with the rest of them when I stood up suddenly, surprising him so much, that he hadn't let go of it, resulting in his right arm circling round my neck still holding my hair.

"Emma," his voice was inquisitive and pleading at the same time, but neither of us moved. He was much closer this time, so close if I moved forward at all, I would brush up against him, and I could feel his warm breath on my neck. He slowly dropped the curl, and his hand trailed down my shoulder to my neck, stopping there as his cool hand cupped my feverishly hot neck. I shivered at his touch. The scent of pine and fresh rain enveloped me so entirely that I could barely think.

George stared at me for what seemed an eternity, before he slowly moved his face closer to mine. His brown eyes seemed to be asking me permission. _You don't need permission to kiss me!_ His nose brushed against mine, and I closed my eyes longing to feel his lips on mine.

I felt his breath on my lips, and then suddenly there was a knock on the door and he sprung away from me like he was burned and strode out towards the main room.

"George?" called John's voice, "Whatever has become of you? I would like to say goodbye to you and Emma before I take my leave!"

I stood there stunned for more than a few seconds. My skin was still tingling from his touch and I bitterly regretted being interrupted. I brushed my fingers against my lips and then my face trying to remove the scalding hot feeling I had, and knew my face must be flaming red.

Cursing John by every foul word I knew, I threw on the dressing gown and some slippers before heading out. _I almost had him!_

The men were talking non-chalantly about the weather when I came in, but John I noticed was watching me for a reaction out of the ordinary as a hawk would watch its prey, and George could not even face me, he merely continued on his conversation.

John came forward to shake my hand, "I am glad to see you feeling so much better Emma," he smiled, still looking intently for some outside sign of whatever had transpired between myself and his brother, but for once I steeled myself to not let my emotions show, and I succeeded. John's slightly disappointed look was my reward.

"I thank you, George and Isabella for your kind care of me during this difficult time. I should not have got on without you." The mask fell into place and the smile with it. Even though all I really wanted to do was stomp on his feet and throw him out of the room.

The spell that had bound George and I earlier was broken though, and even if I had thrown John out it would have done no good. I knew George, and I knew that he was re-assembling his gentlemanly front, and contrived some honorable reason why he could not acknowledge that moment of weakness-and likely some other misconceived notion as to why he could not tell me of his love either.

For in that quick exchange with John, George had turned his face to me ever so briefly and I finally recognized that emotion playing across his face.

It was pure and unadulterated love.

**A/N**: I would have to say this is my second favorite chapter, after the last one of course! Make up for the last few chapters? Of course, yes John is evil for interrupting them, we all know this. Poor George!

**Iambbq**: Yes, poor George, ever the gentleman. Emma is trying her hardest to get him to admit that he loves her, and he won't because he thinks he's going to take advantage of her….so she uses her charm on him, and it would have worked, if not for the evil John….

**Bet**: I'm glad you liked it! I promise the story will end well though!


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** So this is a longer chapter in George's POV to make up for the short one the other time…it starts slow but it gets better by the end I promise

**Chapter 10**

That night I think I wore a hole in my carpet pacing back and forth so very much, all the while cursing myself for what I had come so close to doing.

Kissing Emma while she was drugged out of her mind, regardless of whether she seemed to want it or not was a certain and complete breach of the gentleman's code. _Lord help me though, that woman might as well be my drug. She was a beautiful siren luring me to my doom and hers._

I tried so hard to resist her suggestion this morning, but she would not have it, and I thought I had mastered my emotions until she turned around on me, effectively shifting the tables against me.

Unbidden her scent of honey and mint and the feeling of silky golden hair flew into my conscious and I threw open the window in the room and leaned my head out to breath in the fresh and freezing cold air, I _had_ to get her out of my head.

Even if Emma seemed to want my advances now, the doctor had warned us that her emotions would be far more volatile due to her medication. _Could that make feelings of mere friendship multiply into romantic ones? Or did there have to be a basis for the romantic feelings first?_

It was questions like this that I had been torturing myself with since our encounter this morning. There was one thing I knew for certain though, if I had kissed her, and she had responded and then when she came off the medication she no longer wanted me I knew I should lose my mind. I slammed the window shut in frustration and started pacing again.

_Not to mention I myself should have damaged the reputation I had nearly laid down my life to save._

Stopping mid-stride I ran my fingers through my hair again, resisting the urge to tear it out.

Our conversation later that morning had mostly been from her, she assured me that she had never felt anything for Frank Churchill, and had only considered him not to disappoint Mr. and Mrs. Weston. She also apologized for any behavior that had led to the implication that she had desired him, and for any behavior 'nomatter how small that might have injured you, my dearest friend.'

It was those last words of hers that made me wonder if she had indeed read my letter or not. It was still entirely possible that that letter lay unopened on her dressing table at Hartfield, since Isabella had alerted her to the duel.

_Did she know that I loved her? Were her actions and words directed by love for me, or merely medication?_

_At this point it was just as likely I should drive myself mad merely asking these questions._

When I eventually managed to go to sleep I resolved I should never put myself again alone with her in a room, that I should contrive a reason for someone else to be present.

Of course this was much easier resolved on than done, and I feared by the end of the following morning I was going to drive everyone else mad with me.

Somehow it worked though; Isabella joined us for breakfast that morning in Emma's room. I made Bridget clean the entire master bedroom from floor to ceiling while I sat there reading Emma the newspaper, and that evening both Mr. Woodhouse and Isabella were present for our nightly backgammon and pianoforte entertainment.

The weeks passed, and turned into months. Finally Dr. Perry declared what I both longed for and dreaded at the same time.

"Tomorrow we shall remove her stitches, and the day after she should be safe to return to Hartfield." He stated with satisfaction, "Then I shall give you a lavender salve for the scarring, and we shall slowly reduce your medication dosage."

Emma smiled, and Mr. Woodhouse nodded in agreement. Isabella sighed with relief.

As for me, well I knew that these beautiful days of living with Emma under the same roof were going to come to and end. She was not my wife, I had no claim over her, and this last month had really been the closest I would ever get to domesticity with her. I put a smile on my face for her, but I was not happy at all to see her go.

Before I knew it I was in carriage, escorting her and her father back home, Isabella having returned to London the day prior with my brother who had come to fetch her.

I think we talked about the weather, and Harriet Smith's pending nuptials with Robert Martin, but I could not really tell you, for I was rather miserable the entire mile long ride to Hartfield. So very miserable in fact, that I sent the carriage back without me and opted to walk back to Donwell that evening, putting off returning to my house without Emma's bright face across the hall in the morning.

Even my servants missed her sunny presence and Bridget one morning as she was cleaning the windows, went so far as to ask me if we should 'ever expect a mistress at Donwell?' Her question hurt more than words can say, not only because I was now convinced that while Emma had read my letter she did not desire a change in our friendship, but it was also apparently obvious to my staff that I was in love with her.

I didn't want their pity, I didn't want anyone's pity.

The town at large did not really know how to react to our relationship, or lack thereof. It was generally accepted before the duel that I had always been her best friend, a sort of protector to her, bordering on brother even though I clearly was not.

Naturally, they had accepted a bit of possessiveness from me in regards to her, but now after the duel things were just plain awkward.

Emma continued to call me by my Christian name, which of course was one of the few bright things that had come out of the duel for me, but in doing so she announced that a change had occurred between us.

For the life of me, I could not (and neither could the town apparently) figure out what exactly that change was.

She did _try_ to lapse back into 'Mr. Knightley' when in public, but usually failed to remember. People would often give us odd looks, and the evil eye I had always received from Mrs. Elton was now rejoined by one from the reverend himself though I could not discover why.

Miss Bates could not stop talking about how very gallant I was in defending Emma's honor, and how very brave Miss Woodhouse was for trying to save me.

She was the only one in the town with enough steel to mention the incident at all though. My servants thankfully, never mentioned the lapse in judgment and sanity that I had shown during those dark days, though I found each one of them looking on me with a combination of both newfound respect and pity.

The Westons were very obliging to both Emma and I after the affair, though neither of us felt it necessary as they had not been privy to their son's doings. Mrs. Weston would periodically stop in to check on me for no apparent reason, always looking like she had something to say but never saying it and leaving me with the kind but innocuous words, "Emma cares for you very much you know."

Mr. Woodhouse was probably about the only one in town that continued on as if nothing had occurred at all, only mentioning Mr. Churchill as a direly evil being the few times he came up in conversation at all.

Emma herself was the biggest enigma of all, she continued on as if our friendship had not changed at all, with the exception of her calling me 'George' and the little fact that she broke the unspoken societal rule of not touching someone who was not family.

It was the little things that kept me on pins and needles around her.

At breakfast her arm would brush mine when she reached for the salt.

At church on Sunday she would insist on my lending her my arm when we walked to and from.

In the morning in the parlor she would peer her head over my shoulder, just barely grazing it to gaze at something.

She would drop something in front of me that necessitated both of us leaning to pick up the same object at the same time, and thus touching hands for the briefest of moments.

Emma even went so far as to criticize my posture while I leaned over the backgammon board one evening and beckoned me to sit straight with a quick pass of her hand over my shoulders.

At Harriet's wedding she squarely refused to dance the entire evening despite her stunning seasonal ochre dress, claiming she was fatigued, and no one would challenge her after her ordeal, so she spent the entire night talking to me in the corner, whispering in my ear so close at times I could feel her curls brush against my cheek.

I countered this by making sure that when we were inside we were never alone together. Whether there was a servant dusting the bookcase, her father dozing off in the corner or even Miss Bates chattering about Miss Fairfax's new prospects as a governess in Bath with Mrs. Elton's friend. There was always someone else present.

It was about all I could do to stay sane.

There were times where Emma and I would lock eyes for what seemed like an eternity and I saw pleading and hurt in her eyes, but for the life of me, I could discern her meaning.

_Had she been in love with Churchill after all?_

Thus, it was with more than a little trepidation that one blisteringly cold and cloud-covered morning when I was walking into town to fetch some official mail from parliament that could only be transferred to me that I ran into the one and only Miss Woodhouse rounding the bend by the church. She had just finished tying up her horse outside the rectory, ironically next to mine.

"Emma!" I exclaimed in genuine surprise. I had taken the long route into town I was ashamed to admit, avoiding Hartfield because I needed to clear my head.

Emma was of course, going to prevent this.

"George!" she replied happily with a smile, pulling her cape a little tighter with a gust of wind, then she looked confused, "Where are you coming from?"

"Donwell," I replied casting about for a reason I had taken the long route.

"Why did you not stop by Hartfield? We could have ridden into town together." She replied as the two of us stood awkwardly there alone in the street.

Then realization dawned on her, and she looked down at her feet trying to hide her blush.

I could feel my own face turning red. _What a mess you have made of things now George!_

"Emma, I-" I tried to start, but wasn't sure what to say, her head shot up though at the sound of my voice. "I'm sorry I just needed to clear my head." _The truth will set you free._

"Yes I gathered that." She replied a little hurt, "I would obviously hinder that." She made to turn around as she bit her lip her eyes tearing up.

_You've hurt her._

"Emma," I grasped her shoulders, the first time I'd voluntarily touched her in anything beyond courtesy since she'd been at Donwell. "Please Emma, I'm not trying to hurt you!"

She shook her head but would not face me.

"Will you walk into town with me Emma? Or I shall take you home if you prefer."

When she spoke her voice was thick with emotion, and I knew that I had caused it, "Why should you want to walk with someone who puts you ill at ease?"

_Dear Lord this is a terrible mess._

I closed my eyes briefly to gather my thoughts, "Emma, you do not disturb me." I soothed.

She rounded on me suddenly, "Then why have you been avoiding me since that day at Donwell? Do not think I have not noticed!" She was on the verge of tears, and very clearly hurt. She brought her hand to her mouth trying to steady her face and prevent a break down.

"Simply because I do not know what _you_ desire of me Emma!" I said losing my patience with this whole situation. My emotions, like hers were boiling to the surface and causing me to act out of character. The strain of the last two months was finally coming to a head.

_How could I have thought I could avoid her? The love of my life?_

She looked at me astonished blinking back her tears, "George all I've ever wanted was you." My heart jumped into my throat at her words. She took a trembling step towards me, "Please say you will still be my friend!" She pleaded. _She only wants you as a friend, even now._

_Then you must take what you have, and treat her like a friend._

I wrapped my arms around her, disregarding propriety. _Hell I fought a duel for this woman, surely I can hug her, society be damned._

She clung to me shivering from cold to be sure, but was there emotion as well?

Whispering into her ear, "Emma my dear, I never stopped being your friend." I heard her sniffle and I felt my own eyes tearing up despite myself, wanting to weep for the months of misunderstanding just as much as the likelihood she still only wanted me as her friend.

_I love you Emma. More than you can ever know._

We stood there for an eternity it seemed, and nothing else mattered around us. Finally I recovered myself and pulled away, she smiled at me weakly. I brushed the errant tear on her pale cheek.

"Don't weep, I will never leave you Emma." I vowed in utter seriousness. Leaning in, I kissed her lightly on her forehead.

"Now will you come into town with me?" I asked again, hoping to have recovered the situation and to change the subject before I broached something I knew I should not.

"Yes," she laughed before sniffing again, looking to her feet first, and then up at me with a smile. I offered her my arm. She took it, and we walked down the street into town like the last three months have not happened.

Soon I realized she was rambling on about the invitation to the Weston's annual Christmas Ball and the dress that Mrs. Elton was having brought in from Bath for the occasion.

I wondered why she was discussing such mundane things with me, then I realized with a shock that Emma was terribly lonely.

Isabella was back in London, and had been for some time. Harriet was married and barely had time for visits anymore, and Mrs. Weston had just announced she was in a family way and was visiting less.

_Emma had no friends to talk to, which must have made my putting her at an arm's length even more excruciating._

_I had been so wrapped up in my own pain, that I had not even seen hers. _

_Badly done George!_

I vowed I would never treat her like this again, nomatter how much it hurt to be near the one woman I desired more than anything else in the world, I should be there for her. Through thick and through thin I would be her constant.

"I mean really George, isn't that most terrible of Mrs. Elton? Ordering her dress from Bath and not using the Fords' shop like the rest of us? She means to ruin them I am sure, for she is the leading lady of fashion in town-or so she thinks and in doing this she will cause them to lose much business I am sure, and around the holiday too! Most unthinking!" She exclaimed

I realized my reflections had driven my thoughts and I had not listened to her rambling.

"Hmm…Yes, most disagreeable action on her part." I concurred belatedly.

"Therefore, I ordered the Fords to import the newest cloth from Paris, and was told it came in this morning. I intend to have them make me a more fashionable dress than Mrs. Elton for the ball, and prove that you don't need to go to Bath to get a stylish dress." She continued, having missed my inattentiveness, "Do you not think this is a good idea? To use my influence for good?" she asked most eagerly looking up at me for my approval.

"Won't the cloth cost a good deal coming all the way from Paris? How are you sure your dress will be better received than Mrs. Elton's?" I could not help finding the loopholes in her scheme, just like old times. I smiled in spite of myself.

She pulled a Lady's fashion magazine from inside her cape, "I am assured by Isabella who sent this with her letter this very morning that the patterns laid out in here are the latest in Parisian fashion, and that it only came to London a few days before, it cannot have made its way to Bath already." She replied beaming, barely stopping for breath, "And, I told the Fords I should pay for all the cloth regardless of whether or not I chose to use it now. I can always use it later." She finished with a self-satisfied smile.

I reached for the magazine, "Very well, may I see this pattern?"

She pulled it from my reach with her mischievous smile, "No!" she laughed, "It's a surprise!"

I stopped walking, "Emma you know I don't like surprises!" I returned

"Simply because _you_ do not like surprises does not mean that everyone shares your opinion."

"So I may not see the dress?"

"Not even my father will see the dress before I wear it to the ball! I will not have a word of its design leaking out!"

"Emma I'm just as likely to forget what it is all about the minute I close the magazine, you know I do not understand women's fashion."

"Oh but you _will_ remember this dress, I am going to make sure of it!" Her face was positively aglow with her plan, and her eyes twinkled with merriment. _Clearly she has something else intended besides only showing up Mrs. Elton._

I extended my arm again, "Very well, you may have your surprise on one condition." I said calmly, though I was on tenter-hooks about her response to my suggestion, "I will claim one dance with you at this ball of my own choosing."

She took my arm with approval, "Well that is not so difficult a price to pay." We continued into town, first to the post office for my mail then to Fords'. Where she promptly banished me to the men's top-hat section lest I see any of her plans.

She whispered and laughed and exclaimed over by the counter, and I tried to occupy myself with what claimed to be the latest fashions in men's ware. I couldn't find any difference between what was in the store, and what I was wearing now.

Realizing the amount of time I'd spent over here would indicate I'd have to buy something, I grasped at a square of dark green cloth and headed towards the counter.

Emma saw me coming and narrowed her eyes at me bundling up her samples into her arms and under her cape with the magazine.

I did see one piece she snatched up too late though, it was incredibly intricate work an impossible combination of nearly invisible silver and white lace that bore a strong resemblance to snowflakes and glittered in the sunlight with the fire of dozens of miniscule diamonds.

_Dear Lord! What has she ordered?_

I plunked my one puny sample down on the counter, "I shall take a new vest made of this." I stated simply.

Mr. Ford picked it up, running the material through his wizened fingers, "Thick evergreen silk, nice choice Mr. Knightley," he replied, "and will you be having a new set of breeches and coattails to go with it as well?"

"Of course." I replied, somewhat perplexed as to why I needed these additions, but whatever got me away from the counter and Emma's glare fastest would suffice.

"The usual then." He determined, scribbling a few things down on a slip of paper, noting the sample number, "It shall be ready within the week for a fitting."

"Thank you." I replied quickly, wondering how I'd gotten roped into a whole new ensemble that I didn't need and was likely to be uncomfortable to wear.

Emma then banished me to the ladies' gloves section.

I was even more lost there, they all looked exactly the same. White, white and more white. There was the periodic black or blue. Oh wait, that one had a flower on it…

_Lord I abhor shopping…_

Emma was still rambling excitedly though, and I had to find something to occupy my time.

I glanced about the shop, and noticed ribbons.

_Well at least these look different!_

Wandering over there were rows upon rows of every color known to mankind. From a sickly green that looked like cat vomit to a vibrant red that looked exactly like holly berries.

Finally, I decided to devilishly select a very fine silver ribbon with some sort of ruffling at the edges and moved back over to the counter. Thankfully Emma was just finishing up, but she gave me the most terrible look when she saw what I had in my hands.

Placing it in front of Mr. Ford, "I'll buy this for Miss Woodhouse's new dress." I drawled with ease, waiting her angry response. Mr. Ford's lips were playing to a smile, but he was trying to stop it as he replied,

"That will be eight shillings, Mr. Knightley."

I favored Emma with a taste of her own medicine, smiling at my triumph as I closed her tiny little hands around the spool of ribbon. She harrumphed.

We walked out and I swore I could have heard Mr. Ford laughing as the door closed behind us.

Stopping next at Dr. Perry's Emma picked up her father's cough syrup and asked for more of the lavender salve. She removed her cape and her shawl to show the doctor how her scar was progressing, and I decided to let her have her distance as I examined some of the doctor's remedies on the shelf.

Though I could not help but overhear some of the conversation.

"Will it ever go away completely doctor?" Emma pleaded

He sighed, "I do not think so Miss Woodhouse, young though you are, the human body does not easily forget trauma like that."

She nodded mutely, but bought the salve anyway. We walked in companionable silence back to our horses, and I noted that the wind had picked up significantly.

Emma placed her purchases in her saddlebag and I put my mail in mine, making sure to fasten it securely in case the rain that had been promising to appear all morning finally did.

"Will you be staying for dinner tonight?" she asked suddenly as I helped her on to her horse.

"I have nothing pressing at Donwell, I don't see why not."

Her face lit up, "Good because I had cook make lamb stew in the possibility of you coming."

I shook my head, "Were you so very sure of it?" I mounted my own horse and we set off at a trot.

She gave me a semi-incredulous glance backwards, "But of course George, you always seem to know when we are having lamb stew."

Nearly a mile into our five mile return to Hartfield, the dark skies opened up into a most inconvenient downpour. _Mr. Woodhouse will be so upset with me for letting her out in the rain._

I reached over to grasp her horse's reins, effectively stopping her, "Come we should return to town to wait this out, you father wouldn't want you taking chill in this cold weather."

She placed her gloved hands on top of mine, and pried them off her reins, shouting to be heard above the din her eyes had that impish look about them again, "Have you not always said that rainstorms are most invigorating Mr. Knightley? I propose a race to Hartfield. In the rain. Last one there is a rotten egg." The rain was pouring down on both of us, and I could feel it soaking through my clothes.

_Lord this woman was impossible!_

"Emma that is very dangerous in this weather, and besides, you forget I am the better horseman, I should easily win." I countered

She pouted, crossing her arms.

I sighed, "Very well, I shall give you a twenty second head-start, now make good use of it!"

She needed no second warning and was off as fast as I could blink, determined to win one of our little bets. _Some things will never change._ I laughed to myself remembering all of our little contests when she was growing up.

I counted slowly to twenty, watching her lean determinedly forward on her horse, her blue cape flapping wildly behind her, and I laughed with amusement as her bonnet, not securely fastened enough, fell off her head to her back, hanging on for dear life by its ribbons. Emma didn't even notice she was so intent on putting ground between us.

_Twenty-nine…_

I'd counted higher than I'd promised accidentally, so I kicked my horse to tear after her. _Despite my misgivings I was glad Emma had insisted on the race, I was already feeling a lot better._

The rain beat against my face like iron cold needles, and I heard my own cape snapping in the wind as the ground separating me from my dear friend shortened.

_God help me, there must be some masochist spirit in me that makes me take joy in storms._ The worry and dread of this morning was forgotten as nothing but the race mattered, and my faster horse ate up the ground between Emma and I under the thunder of hooves to match the rolling thunder in the skies.

It was not long before I crested the hill blocking the village from Hartfield, and saw Emma not too far ahead of me. Her hair was a complete disaster, having lost the protection of the bonnet, nearly half of it had escaped its bond of ribbons and pins to tumble down her back. She dared a glance back, and is seeing me closing her, she nudged her horse faster.

We could have closed her in no time, but somehow the vision of her racing at breakneck speed over the brown grass under the grey skies the cold silver needles of rain beating down on us, her golden and blue form the only color in the world surrounding her, my heart caught, and I could not ruin that for the life of me.

_She was going to win this race._

**A/N:** I think it's cute that even though they're super competitive all the time, he gives up on the race cause he'd rather watch her win.

**Johonna Marie: **I'm so glad you think the characters are true to the book, sometimes I wonder if I've changed them too much. I think the worst thing is I can't write in the same fashion as Austen herself, I know if I tried to it would sound terrible, so I've chosen to write more or less how I talk. We're about 2/3 through the story now, hope you enjoy the rest!

**Thoughtsthatfester: **Glad you enjoyed it! Thanks for hanging around!

**Bet:** Sadly men don't speak the same language as we females…not even Mr. Knightley. ;)


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

When at last we clattered into the stableyard at Hartfield, Emma was breathing heavily, her breath coming out in puffs of cloud due to the chill, triumph was written all over her face though.

I swept my drenched hair back from my brow, while I was not out of breath, she did not seem to notice, "Who is the better horseman now?" she crowed, driving her horse closer to mine, preventing my entry to the stable. Her wet hair framed her face in an adorable fashion, and her hazel eyes seemed to be positively glowing.

I looked at her with bemusement, "Had I not given you a thirty second head start I do not think you should have won." I replied, noting with a small laugh that her bonnet had managed to make the trip back after all, lying forgotten on her back, but still there.

"I believe that means you lost." She beamed

She looked like a cross of an angel and a mischievous school-girl. Her light blue dress contrasting her darker blue cape which accented her hair so it shone like spun gold even in the rain. The invisible spell had fallen over us again.

I leaned in towards her to whisper in her ear with a smirk, "No I believe that means that my horse and I were distracted by the stunningly beautiful figure racing cross-country." Her heady scent of mint and honey, in spite of all the rain made me want to breathe in deeply, and I had to fight to resist the urge.

She closed the already narrow distance, brushing her leg against mine, so close that our horses and our legs were touching. "I suppose it is a good thing then that you gave me a thirty second head start." She replied in kind with a low voice in a tone I'd never heard her use before, hot breath on my ear and I shuddered, "Lest I be distracted by your dreadfully handsome appearance."

This time I could feel my own face turn red. I was surrounded by her scent it was intoxicating, and my eyes locked onto hers like a drowning man grasping out for life.

I brushed aside a wet strand of hair from her face, and she closed her eyes with a smile.

My hand strayed to her neck.

_She was not on any medication now, she was her own sweet self. And Lord knows I was going to kiss her._

I rested my forehead on hers and closed the distance. Anticipation was killing me.

"Emma! Mr. Knightley! Come inside! You will catch your death of cold out there!" Mr. Woodhouse's voice bellowed from the window above.

_Damn and hell!_

I broke off, and angrily steered my horse into the stable, dismounting and tending him while Emma did the same with hers.

We did not speak, but I would glance at her every so often, and caught her staring at me.

When we finished she grabbed her purchases from the saddle, and I asked the first thing that came to mind, "How is your scar doing?'

She colored bright cherry red, looking at her toes, "It is quite visible I assure you. Mrs. Elton says it is a pity I shall have to wear high-collared dresses from now on, young or not I should not want people to see my ugly scar."

I put my fingers under her chin, lifting her face up, "Emma, Dr. Perry did a neat job with it, I doubt it is half so bad as you or Mrs. Elton thinks."

She was on the verge of tears again, "Who will want me with this scar?" she cried, "It's hideous I tell you!" She turned away.

I couldn't believe she was listening to Mrs. Elton's opinion on anything, that woman was certainly not a lady, nor a friend of Emma's.

I reached for her right shoulder on purpose, "Might I see your scar Emma?" Her back was to me.

"Why would you want to see something that ugly?" she asked

"Because Emma, I do not think it ugly, I think it shows rather how strong and brave you are. Not many women would have faced down a gun for a mere friend." I finished.

She turned around, contrasting emotions fighting their way across her face, but she looked me squarely in the eye, "You're not just any old friend George." She swept aside her cape, and took off her sodden green shawl.

She pulled the thick shoulder of her gown down to reveal her collarbone. In the stable's dim light I had trouble seeing anything at first but white skin.

I looked mutely at her, asking for permission, she nodded assent and I leaned in closer, there it was, a faint purple line no longer than her smallest finger traced on her white shoulder, it widened in the center to the size of thimble before tapering off again.

Not able to resist myself, I pressed my thumb against her scar, gently rubbing it, she shivered. The skin was as smooth as the day she'd been born.

"Emma this is barely even visible." I replied, pulling her dress back up, "You should not listen to Mrs. Elton, she is just envious that you have been the center of all talk in Highbury for the last two months and not her."

I pulled her shawl and cape back into place, taking her squarely by the shoulders, and forcing her to look me in the eye, "You are no less beautiful to me Emma, just because you have a visible mark that shows the world you are loyal and caring person. Don't hide your scar Emma, it's a beauty mark for your soul." I finished.

She made some unintelligible sound somewhere between a chirp and a cry and encircled me with her arms in a flash, burying her head into my chest. "Don't ever leave me, George. Please don't ever leave me alone again." She sobbed with heavy emotion.

We stood there, so close I could hear the heaving of her chest, and I rubbed my hand across her back until she had calmed down.

Eventually we headed inside.

"I have been thinking Emma," I began, "that I should make recompense for having seen one of your samples." I could feel my heart beating out of my chest, and feared she would too.

She looked at me curiously as we crossed the courtyard, the rain still coming down in sheets.

"I know that Isabella received most of your mother's jewels, and you most likely don't have anything fancy enough for your dress…" I started but stopped looking at her for a reaction. Her face had nothing written on it though, but curiosity.

"I think you should borrow a set of my mother's, she is not here to miss them, and heaven knows they haven't seen any use in over twenty years." I ran my hand through my hair again nervously as I finished, praying she would not over analyze and discover what I was really saying with this offer.

She stopped in her tracks with surprise, "Are you sure?" she reached for my hands, taking them in hers.

I looked at her with the briefest of smiles, "Quite."

"If you are sure you will not mind my using your mother's things, then I should be happy to borrow some." She said happily, "I had not even thought of jewelry till you mentioned it, but you are right, I do not own anything good enough."

"Don't worry, my mother's collection will put anyone in Highbury and probably half of England to shame." I grinned in reply.

She smiled as I held the door open for her, "I'll be at home nearly all of this next week, you may come over and look any time that pleases you."

"That will be very nice George."

**A/N: **Poor George! He thinks Emma might like him now, but every time he tries something they get interrupted!

**Bet:** While they were technically in public, there was no one in sight when he hugged her if you recall. The other interesting thing about people in love (who have not admitted it to each other) is they cannot seem to resist touching each other. George was trying for months to resist this, even though Emma was doing the opposite, and now he's just said 'to hell with it.'

**Johonna Marie:** Thank you! Yeah Emma we all know is mischievous, and poor Mr. .Knightley has no idea what he's in for at the Christmas Eve ball….


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

The week that lead up to Mrs. Weston's ball was the most anticipation I'd felt for any event since my sister Isabella's wedding.

I went down nearly every day to Ford's to check on my dress, and the kindly tailor permitted my frequent visits with good humor.

Just this morning I'd received a note saying the dress had been finished and was ready to be picked up. So, at my father's insistence I took the carriage into town this time and stopped at the Ford's running in excited as a child on Christmas to see his finished product.

He led me into the back room, and the dress was everything I'd expected it to be, and more. It was dazzling, but not blinding, stunning but not garish. It was simply perfect.

Except one thing.

The sleeves had followed the pattern exactly, and were on the upper arm, not the shoulder as I had requested.

"The sleeves!" I blurted. _Would there be time to fix them?_

Mr. Ford colored, "I am sorry Miss Woodhouse." He rubbed his hands together nervously, "I don't think there would be time to fix them though, not with the ball tomorrow."

"_Don't hide your scar Emma, it's a beauty mark for your soul…"_

_If I hadn't known better I would have said he'd planned this._

"It's alright," I turned to face Mr. Ford, "I'll take it anyway. How much was it?"

If it were even more possible he turned redder at my question. "I'm afraid I can't sell it to you." He replied.

"Whyever not?" I asked confused

He wrung his hands nervously, "Because it has already been paid for anonymously, as a gift for you."

_There were only two people in all of England who knew my scheme, and Isabella was in London._

_George. That devil!_

"May I ask who is giving me such an extravagant present?" I asked anyway

The shopkeeper shook his head, "He wanted it a secret." Mr. Ford instead turned to bundling his precious creation into a bag.

When he had finished and handed it off to me he winked, "I think you already know though."

As I walked out of the store, I wondered whether I should curse or thank George.

After safely depositing the dress in my wardrobe at Hartfield I returned to the carriage, intent on Donwell and cornering it's Master.

_He better not have looked at my dress before he bought it._

When I arrived, I threw open the carriage door disregarding the rainstorm and bounded up the marble stairs of the Abbey house I knew almost as well as my own. I opened the ancient oaken doors like they did not exist and stormed into the library where I knew George was likely to be.

Sure enough, in the only room in the house with a single window, and surrounded on all sides by his precious books, seated at his well-worn desk scribbling letters in response to a large stack at his left sat George, jacket discarded unto the sofa, vest half-unbuttoned and cravat askew, his fingers playing with his hair and quill at the same time as he gathered his thoughts.

My heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, and in spite of myself I could feel my anger dissipating._ Devilishly handsome to be sure._

I stalked in nonetheless, trying to re-kindle my anger. "Did you pay for my dress?" I demanded, standing there in a puddle of dripping rainwater.

He looked up at me; a smirk flashed across his face but was gone just as quickly as he crossed his arms behind his head, "I do not know what you are talking about." He said evenly but his conniving smile told otherwise.

_I knew it! He's lying to me!_

I crossed my arms in frustration, he stood, and fished at his belt, "However, I do believe you came for this." He found and offered me an ancient and delicate key that could have only gone to one lock in the house.

The jewel casket of his mother.

My hand shook a little as he dropped it in my palm and closed my fingers around it.

"It's the only key, so don't lose it," he joked turning back to his work.

"Aren't you coming with me?" I asked confused.

"No," he replied sitting back down and biting the end of his quill, "this is pressing, and I should spoil your dress if I knew what jewelry you chose."

I hesitated still, he turned to look at me, "Well? I believe you know the way…" He made a shooing motion.

Finally my desire to see his mother's collection overtook me and I dashed up the stairs.

His room looked exactly as I had left it a month before, scattered books and pens everywhere, and a pile of papers on his bed.

_Some things will never change._ I laughed to myself.

I turned down the hall and found and opened his mother's chest with the small click of the lock.

Tray after tray of rubies, emeralds, sapphires, pearls and diamonds winked back at me.

I was overwhelmed at the variety and quality. There was easily enough money here to buy all of Hartfield twice over, and possibly all of Highbury.

I was reminded just how old his family was when I picked up a medieval looking crucifix studded with blood-red rubies and lustrous pearls.

The Woodhouses had made their money in trade over the last four generations, before that we had been London merchants. The Knightleys as far as I could remember had been royal servants, and this jewelry casket told their story just as well as any book.

There was any overly ornate gold and topaz necklace that bespoke the excesses of the Sun King's era, a string of pearls nearly four feet long with a bejeweled Tudor Rose at the end, clearly meant to wrapped around one's neck multiple times. A huge sapphire and pearl necklace that reminded me of the night sky.

It was a bewildering amount of jewels to be sure.

The I saw it, the perfect piece, winking back at me in the candlelight. I gingerly picked up the delicate necklace, for that was what it was, a veritable lace network of tiny diamond flowers, scattered about in no apparent pattern at first, but upon further examination, there was a haphazard one.

The flowers were so tiny they could almost be mistaken for snowflakes, and it had a matching pair of earrings.

As I went to close the casket, a ring tumbled out onto the wooden floor with a clatter.

Stooping to pick it up I was amazed by its exquisiteness. The stone was a dark green perfect emerald, cut in the newer French style, an oval with pointed ends, longer than my thumbnail and wider than my smallest fingernail at its thickest point.

Surrounded by diamonds, it was a breathtaking piece, the gold band was worn, but something made me look inside it.

"_To Addie, From James on the occasion of our marriage."_

_Adelaide and James. Why did those names ring a bell?_

In any case the band was too small to fit my finger, and green and gold would not match my dress.

Reluctantly I put the ring back in the box, and re-locked the trunk.

Walking out of his room I glanced back at his parents' portraits.

"Adelaide MacKenzie Knightley" read the plaque beneath the red-haired beauty. I felt a chill sweep over me. I glanced at his father's portrait, "James Owen Knightley."

I swallowed.

_That was his mother's ring of engagement._

I knew some of the older families used rings of engagement, though amongst the newer ones, it was not so commonplace. Apparently George's was one of them, I should have remembered this though, since John gave Isabella a fine ruby ring when they married.

Feeling more than a bit ungrateful at coveting his mother's ring of engagement, I shuffled downstairs and towards the library.

Placing the key in his hand I thanked him profusely.

"Did you find something? He asked genuinely interested.

"There were so many choices!" I blustered

He laughed, "I told you she had a large collection, though to be fair some of those jewels are centuries old."

I swallowed again, nodding vigorously, "How old is your family again?"

George scratched his head for a minute, "Well I believe the first recorded Knightley we have trace of was and Edward Owen Knightley swearing allegiance to King Edward IV of the House of York in 1461, claimed he was from Wales originally, but we're not sure."

"I believe he was granted land in what they called 'Highberry' at the time for his services to the crown just before the War between the Houses started."

I gasped and covered my mouth with my hand; his family was centuries older than mine. Suddenly I felt so inadequate.

He stood immediately, reading my mind, as he had so many times before, he grasped my hands in earnest, "Emma," he said, "Look at me." I did slowly.

"I have never cared for names or money, and you know that. Where you come from does not matter to me, all that matters is what you do with your life." His kind words reassured me somewhat, but I still felt like I wasn't worthy of him.

"George," I choked, "I'm not good enough for you."

"Emma!" He smoothed my hair out, "If you've been listening to Mrs. Elton again I'm going to have to tell her off for you. There is no better friend in the whole wide world than you…'No greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friend…'"

"I'm very much afraid Emma, it is I who am not worthy of you." He spoke softly.

"That's not true, you were just as prepared as I was, I simply beat you to it." I protested

His face shadowed over, and he reached over to my right shoulder again, "Yes," he said sadly, "Yes you did."

He removed his hand and turned back to the study, calling over his shoulder, "You have everything you require then?" He picked up his letter and frowned at it.

At my hesitation he turned to face me again, waiting a response.

"Yes, thank you." I squeaked like a mouse, floored by his generosity, his forgiving spirit and simply everything about him.

"I'll see you in the morning then," He said sitting back down in his chair.

As I walked out and returned to the carriage I realized that I had forgotten to angry with him about the dress…

**A/N: **Thank you for my faithful reviewers! And for the rest of you out there, I hope that you will leave one! Thanks! Don't you love how George distracted Emma?

**Bet:** Yes, scandal, I have been told things are getting out of character for the Regency Era. However, the aftereffects of the duel are my excuse for George and Emma being this 'touchy-feely.' It is surprising what near-death experiences do to the mentality. Don't worry there's only 15 chapters to this story, and I promise you he tells her before then.

**Iambbq:** Yes it is somewhat out of character, but as I mentioned to you, the duel is what caused this 'lapse in mentality' if you will and it is my interpretation of what would have happened to these characters if such a duel had occurred.

**Chexbb:** Thank you for reviewing! I always love it when people tell me they normally don't review but my story prompted them to. I know Austen was not a 'action' type of person, but I felt that given what we know of her characters, Frank's abuse of Emma's emotions and Mr. Knightley's ever-honorable self, I found it hard to believe he didn't challenge him to a duel over her. After all, we already know he's impetuous when it comes to anything Emma-related…


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

The morning of Christmas Eve was a hectic one by any means, for Bessie and I anyway, though I expect Father and George continued about their normal patterns.

It was the first day this entire week that it had not rained, but the skies were still overcast, and the howling wind that whipped around the estate made me wonder how long the skies would remain clear. The frost on my window also indicated that if and when precipitation came, it would not be rain this time.

I simply hoped that Father had not looked out the window this morning, I would hate for him to decide it was too dangerous for me to go to the ball after all my painstaking planning.

The dress was removed from the wardrobe to eliminate any wrinkles, my undergarments laid out for ironing. The booties were checked for scuffs. The rouge and powder set from Isabella and its detailed instructions were read over twice, and then laid out on the vanity. The curling iron laid out with the ornate hairpins and George's silver ribbon besides it.

I happened to glance at the clock, and gasped, it was already half past seven in the morning, and I had not gone downstairs yet for breakfast. _Which means Father and George will be impatiently awaiting me._

"Bessie! I am late! I must to go to breakfast!" I exclaimed, throwing down the gloves on the bed and dashing out the door. _Father never liked it when I was late, how had I not been called yet?_

As I nearly slipped off the last step in my slippers I slowed my pace just before entering the dining room, and tucked my hair behind my ear as I opened the door.

Inside George was leaning over Father's shoulder as they discussed some article in the paper and didn't look up at first. Their meals still untouched waiting for me. I felt guilty.

Father looked up as he closed his paper, "Emma dear-" he began, then stopped looking puzzled and then amused, "Emma my dear I do believe you aren't dressed yet!" He chuckled.

George's face colored red, and he looked away, tasking himself with some mundane chore relating to his napkin.

I cringed and looked at my feet. _Sure enough, those were my dressing slippers on my feet, and my eyes followed the lacy white cotton dressing gown up my legs and torso to my unbound hair._

I had been so busy preparing I'd forgotten to dress!

My Father broke the awkward silence, "Well I suppose the food is getting cold at any rate, just sit down dear."

I shook my head and bit my lip, making to leave.

"Emma!" he scolded, "Cold food is bad for your digestion! Come sit I will not have you catching ill this close to the holiday!"

Nervously I crept in to the dining room, my father chuckled to himself as I awkwardly sat in the chair opposite him and next to George.

George was thoroughly confused for once, he didn't want to look at me for modesty's sake, but he also did not want to slight me either. Instead he chose to stare at his bacon.

_I suppose this situation is terribly funny._

After all, it's not like he hadn't seen me in this attire before, or carried me up and downstairs in it more than once.

The situation was so ridiculous I burst out laughing.

Which resulted in both men looking at me, George clearly against his better judgment.

"What is so funny dear?" asked my Father.

"I'm sorry," I said trying to stop, "It's just ridiculous this protocol we have." I said between laughs, "I mean George is basically family, he's seen me in far worse, and here I am worried about appearances again."

"Well then," my Father rejoined in fashion, "Mr. Knightley perhaps tomorrow you should join us in your dressing gown."

At that point everyone started laughing, and I nearly choked on my juice.

Eventually things calmed down, and the awkwardness was gone. George even offered to send over Bridget to help me get ready, since Bessie and I were clearly overwhelmed.

Grateful I accepted his offer.

He laughed, "I never did understand why women find the need to spend hours dressing for an event that men only require at most twenty minutes to prepare for."

My Father responded sagely, "My dear boy, I have found it better not to ask why." He replied with a smile that indicated there was a story of sort there that he remembered fondly.

"I shall bow to your better experience of this situation." George replied trying to resist the urge to laugh.

"I will have you gentlemen know that it takes a lot to make a girl look proper!" I responded in a huff.

"Well you should have no need of that Emma, you would look fine regardless." Was my friend's response.

"I am sure that even Mr. George Knightley of Donwell Abbey would not like his escort to show up attired as I am now!"

"Indeed no! That would not be proper, and I am quite sure that Miss Emma Woodhouse never breaks societal rules!"

"Not any more than you have! I'm sure!" My rejoinder was weak, but it mattered not. Both of them were laughing at me anyway.

_Watch and see, I will floor you George. You and that inveterate wit of yours!_

I got up to leave the table, as I had finished anyway, George rose and called after me, "Shall I have Bridget bring anything with her?"

I called back from the staircase in a saucy manner, "That will be unnecessary, her own sweet presence will be sufficient, provided it is minus yours."

Wicked though it was to add that last part, he had gotten the better of me in the last argument I could not help it.

He walked out of the dining room to call after me up the stairs, "I should not dream of interrupting such a sacred female exercise as preparing for a dance, it would be most fearful."

I had reached the summit of the stairs and turned around to stick out my tongue at him, childish to be sure, but it was my default response since a girl when there was no response to his wit.

He turned to leave with a smirk, and I called back, "Don't forget your stick to fetch!"

After that I tore down the hallway, not awaiting his response.

An hour and half past that time, there was an insistent knocking on the door, and Bessie opened it a crack to reveal a red-cheeked Bridget.

"May I come in Miss Woodhouse?"

"Of course."

She came in and laid her cape out on the chair, walking over to the fire rubbing her hands together to warm them, "Upon my word! It is deathly cold out of doors!" she exclaimed

Bessie offered an extra glass of mulled cider, a holiday treat from cook which had been sent up to us not ten minutes past.

When Bridget had settled, she turned to ironing out my undergarments as I read the instructions from Isabella for a third time, and then nervously began to apply the rogue and powder to my face. This counted the third time in my life I had ever done so. The first having been Isabella's wedding and the second my social ball when I was sixteen.

Normally I was not so concerned with fashion. It was true that Mrs. Elton was the leader of fashion in Highbury, though I should never tell her that to her face. After Isabella left I had no one to tell me what the latest fashions were, so I did not care, and I merely wore whatever was comfortable.

Fashion was Isabella's realm anyway, which is why she enjoyed living in London. Mrs. Weston and I were realists who preferred the quiet peaceful country to the hustle of London, even if we must give up the fancy dresses and pretty jewels for sturdy boots and cotton frocks.

Which is why George's offer of jewelry was such a boon for me, he was right I didn't have any truly fancy pieces, I had never really needed them. My diamond pendant was good enough for most occasions, and I borrowed from Isabella if there was an event that demanded it.

However, Isabella and John had been detained by bad weather and a cold that had put their youngest in bed for two days. They were not expected tonight.

I laid down the rogue stick after staining my lips and stared at the light grey powder, she had said it was for over my eyes, but I was afraid I would put on too much.

_Oh Isabella! I need your help so much now!_

I giggled to myself, remembering her pursuit of John from years ago, and how I had been her ally the entire time.

"_Mr. Knightley!" I hissed, stopping my friend dead in his tracks._

_He turned to face me, "What is it Emma?" he had been about to enter the parlor at Donwell, but John and Isabella were talking in there. He couldn't interrupt them just yet! Isabella said it was important!_

"_I want to play a game!" I said crossly, stamping my twelve-year old foot on the hardwood floor._

_His eyes were laughing at me, but he asked anyway, "What game would you like to play?"_

"_Hide and go seek!" I clapped excitedly, "Except we must play outside!"_

"_Why must we play outside Emma? It looks like it is going to rain again, and it's muddy everywhere."_

"_Because my hiding place is outside!" I laughed, tearing out the door as I ran into the fresh spring day._

_He had not expected me to bolt, so I had a headstart on him, lifting my skirts I rounded the corner of his great house and ran towards the maze._

_A little over an hour later, Mr. Knightley had retrieved my rather muddy twelve year old self from the maze, my hair completely askew from the nice braid Miss Taylor had put it in earlier, and my frock three inches deep in mud._

_Isabella and John had emerged from the parlor, both beaming, and she now had her pretty ruby ring, but she burst out laughing when she saw me._

"_Emma! What have you done to yourself?" she ran forward to take a hold of me, "Father will be upset!"_

_Mr. Knightley took stock of the situation in a blink and looked at me with some respect. "It seems that your sister has conspired to allow you two enough time to become engaged."_

_I beamed up at him, grateful for his praise. He slapped John heartily on the back, and John for his part turned rather red, then he shook Isabella's hand, "Welcome to the Knightley family Isabella." He said warmly._

_Then my Mr. Knightley turned to look at me and scratched the back of his neck, "Whatever am I to do with you Emma?"_

I sighed, coming back to the present wishing I had Isabella's help like I had given her mine to gain the other brother.

I gingerly applied the brush to the powder block and ever so lightly brushed it over my eyelid.

_The effect wasn't half bad._ All it had really done was put a layer of barely noticeable grey on my eyes that sparkled ever so slightly if the light caught it correctly.

An hour later I looked in the reflecting glass at myself. Bridget had done wonders with my hair. The golden curls were massed around my head in a pleasing puzzle of silver ribbon and crystal snowflake hair pins.

Just enough of it was left down to draw attention to it though, without it being scandalous. My lips were a brilliant red that I feared was too much, but I was assured by both girls that it was very pretty. My cheeks were pink, from rogue or embarrassment at putting so much effort into my ensemble I was not sure and my eyes stood out accented by the faint grey shadow.

My undergarments were a thin silk so as to not overheat in the ballroom under the yards of fabric that was my dress, and the black stockings were (I was convinced) most improper, but Isabella assured me they were all the rage, and besides they were to be hidden under my dress. Bridget took especial pleasure in tying them in place with what was left of Mr. Knightley's ribbon, and at that point I had given up all pretences of hiding my true intent from the maids.

They chattered to each other amiably, leaving me to my thoughts for the most part, except that periodically one of them would comment on how pretty something was, or how I should astound Mr. Knightley that evening for sure.

I was putting on the little black booties with silver embossing, contrary to what Mr. Ford recommended, but I was a country girl, not a city princess, slippers would not do when it looked like snow; when I heard George's voice below stairs and I looked frantically at the girls.

_I was not even in my dress, and I hadn't put on the jewelry yet!_

They answered my unspoken cry for help Bessie grabbed the dress while Bridget shoved my feet into the boots. In a trice they were lacing me up and Bridget carefully removed the jewelry from the velvet wrappings.

The clasp had just closed round my neck when there was a knock on the door, and Bridget opened it suspiciously to reveal good old James our coachman with my father's early Christmas present, a fur-lined black wool cape with silver scrollwork.

Bessie snatched from him and threw it on me, just as I heard George's steady footsteps approaching my door.

"Thank you all so much!" I reached out to the girls and hugged them both, trying not to tear up.

Bridget whispered in my ear, "Go get him Miss Woodhouse!" I blushed a furious red because at that exact second I heard his voice at the open door.

"Lord this place looks like Napoleon went through it!" He surveyed my room, strewn about as it was by various dressing articles, paint, ribbons and the iron. I turned around.

He looked confused in a most attractive way, and I noticed he was wearing his new (and undoubtedly uncomfortable) waistcoat, breeches and pine-green vest. He was running his fingers through his snow-covered dark hair. "I don't understand, am I still not allowed to see your dress?"

We all burst out laughing at that point, and he turned red.

"No silly! You must wait till the ball like everyone else!" I replied, grabbing his arm and leading him downstairs.

He protested as we went down, "I hardly think that is fair Emma, after all I did pay for it!"

"_Aha_!" I poked him in the chest, "I _knew_ you did!"

He colored again but said nothing.

My Father nodded in our direction as a form of benediction, with a smile playing on his lips as George and I walked towards the door.

Once he'd helped me into the carriage and we'd settled in, I stretched my legs out, as was my (rather unladylike) custom.

His face was shocked, and too late I realized what I'd done. My dress was showing!

"_Red_ Emma?" he asked bewildered.

**A/N: **So I felt like Mr. Woodhouse might have been a bit out of character not making Emma change, but I liked the scene anyway, sorry if you disagree. I also liked the maids and Emma's interactions, I like to think that everyone wants them together

**Bet:** Almost but not quite, it is coming soon though!


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